


Older Now, But Not Done Hoping

by WelpThisIsHappening



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas Fluff, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Roommates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-24 22:23:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 25,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17109236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WelpThisIsHappening/pseuds/WelpThisIsHappening
Summary: Killian Jones has lost his festive spirit. It's been forcibly removed by corporate America and private developers and how much alcohol the customers at his bar drink every night. Although, he supposes, that means he's making a profit, but that also feels a little Scrooge-esque and he doesn't have time for visits from ghosts.Because he's suddenly got a whole schedule in front of him, written out and planned by his roommate. To reclaim their mutual and collective festivity. Together. Oh, and he's in love with her. At Christmas. And all the time, really.This is going to be great.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [xellewoods](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xellewoods/gifts).



“Swan, what the hell is on your head?”

Emma spins, eyes narrowing slightly which really only makes the whole thing more absurd because Killian can tell exactly what is on her head. Antlers. With what appears to be some kind of sparkly garland hanging off the top.

He rocks back on his heels when she continues to glare at him, ignoring the frustrated mumblings of the few customers sitting just inside the door of his bar. It’s their fault for sitting there anyway. Something about drafts and old buildings and they’re going to be out of business in several weeks anyway, so none of it really matters anyway.

Merry Christmas.

“I’ve been asking her the same question for the last forty-five minutes,” Will says. He flips a towel over his shoulder, widening his eyes meaningfully at Killian. “And trying to get her out from behind the bar. Where she’s not supposed to be. Behind the bar. Against the rules.”  
  
“That was subtle,” Killian mutters, finally moving away from the door and a slightly glazed looking man mumbles a vaguely sarcastic _thank you_ his direction. “And, that’s not really that big of a deal.”  
  
Will rolls his eyes.

It’s almost less subtle than the other thing.

And, really, the whole thing is kind of stupid. Almost as stupid as trying to save his bar from developers who want to turn Astoria into some suburb and a _retreat for all those Amazon workers_ who are coming to Long Island City and Killian barely heard any of it any of the times it’s been explained to him.

The only thing he knows is they want to take his bar and he’s not sure he’s got anything except his bar. And how much he absolutely wants to tell Emma Swan several things he absolutely cannot. Being in love with your best friend’s little sister, who also happens to be your roommate, is, it turns out, incredibly inconvenient.

Will would argue about the best friend part.

It doesn’t matter. The love part is what’s important and Killian has almost gotten used to the way his heart seems to hammer in his chest every single time he glances Emma’s direction, has been dealing with it for as long as he can remember or something that sounds far less dramatic than that, but today has been awful in a variety of different ways and several others he didn’t realize existed until he was experiencing them.

They want to figure something out before the end of the year. So the developer told him. Something about markets and stocks or whatever. Killian doesn’t care. All he knows is they’re trying to take his bar and it’s ruining December and he’s never been much for December anyway, but it’s been better in the last few years.

That may have something to do with spending those same Decembers with Emma, but that’s neither here nor there.

So, really, Killian just wants to drink as much of his own alcohol stock as possible until his eyes also get a little glazed, crawl into bed with the covers tugged underneath his chin and stop thinking about how soft Emma’s hair is every second he’s awake.

He shouldn’t know that. He hates that he knows that. He’s not sure what he would actually do if he didn’t know that.

The double negatives are confusing.

“Jones,” Will snaps, clearly not the first time he’s tried to get Killian’s attention. Maybe he doesn’t actually need anything to drink.

Emma is very clearly trying not to smile.

“Yeah, yeah,” Killian says. “Still here. And--”  
  
“--Ignoring me.”  
  
“Well, I mean if Swan’s been here for forty-five minutes, then that’s something you should be used to by now.”

Will throws the towel at him. Killian catches it – and he doesn’t _try_ to glance at Emma to make sure she’s seen his incredible athletic talent, but that’s also just how his body works now and he finds he’s glancing at her more often than not. Will is going to do damage to his throat from sighing so much.

“That sounded a bit like an insult,” Emma murmurs, resting her elbows on the top of the bar. “And these are antlers. Have you never seen antlers before?”  
  
“Y’know I don’t know that I actually have in person, honestly.”  
  
“What? Really?”  
  
Killian shrugs. “When do you think I’m encountering reindeer in the middle of Queens, Swan?”  
  
“You haven’t been in Queens your whole life!”  
  
“That’s true,” Killian agrees, hooking his foot around the nearest empty stool and there are quite a lot of empty stools. This is the single most depressing day in the world. “Are you also under the impression that there are a lot of reindeer in Boston? They weren’t just patrolling the campus at BC, you know.”  
  
Emma narrows her eyes, a twist of her lips that is equal parts familiar and taunting. Killian has to take a deep breath to avoid doing something particularly stupid, pulling in far too much oxygen through his nose and Will slides a half-filled glass of something towards him.

“Subtle, right?” Will asks.

Killian flips him off. That seems like the best response because it’s been going on for far longer than it should – since Boston College and Emma coming to the city during his junior year and they didn’t really like each other at first, but that eventually evolved into something that was almost like quiet acceptance and she was going to Northeastern and around and then David started dating her best friend. Only to promptly fall in love.

Like. The truest of true love. Killian is certain Mary Margaret and David look at each other and rainbows appear and choirs sing and it’s all disgusting and over-the-top and he’s always so goddamn jealous of it, he feels like he could burst.

So he and Emma kept hanging out. They talked. They became, almost, friends.

But then he graduated and moved back home – an idea and a hope and the thought that maybe he and Will could do this that was, currently, blowing up in his face. At the time though, it didn’t matter. He had so much false hope he was practically radiating with it, confidence and certainty and a profit margin that didn’t make the bank flinch.

And time, as it’s apt to do, continued to move.

Emma graduated. And decided she wanted to move to New York – as a police officer. “I just want to do something good, you know,” she’d said, whispered into a phone several thousand miles away from the bar stool Killian was sitting on at the time.

He’d promised her she could. He was certain she could. And the words seemed to tumble out of him at that point, invitations and promises it was _fine_ and _it makes more sense, honestly_ and it did – they could get a good apartment together and he was tired of living in the piece of garbage studio off Steinway Street.

The last thing he expected was for Emma to agree.

Honestly, the whole thing is his own goddamn fault. A fact Will is quick to point out, at least, three times a week.

“Yeah, yeah, you’ve proved your point,” Emma grumbles. She has to lean forward to tug the glass out of Killian’s hand, downing half the drink in one quick gulp and shivering slightly. “God, what is that?”  
  
“I don’t know. I didn’t actually get a chance to drink any of it.”  
  
“Ok, that’s not--”  
  
“--Em, can you not critique my drinks until, like, at least, after we find out if we’re going out of business?" Will interrupts, and they should really all just get separate glasses. It doesn’t make any sense to keep sharing one drink.

That should be the subhead of their lives at this point.

Emma blinks, eyes snapping towards Killian and he tries not to actually wilt under her gaze. It doesn’t actually work. “What does that mean?”  
  
“You didn’t tell her?” Will shouts before Killian can answer, drawing the curious glances of several customers. One of them definitely shouts _he should have told her_ from the booth at the front of the bar. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell her,” Will continues. “That’s--you tell Emma everything. Like it’s disgusting how close the two of you are.”  
  
Killian does his best to glare without making it obvious, but that proves an absolute impossibility Particularly when Emma is still staring at him.

“God, you’re an idiot,” Will mumbles. He fills up the shot glass again only to drink it himself.

Killian groans. “Am I ever going to get anything to drink? Shoddy service here. No wonder they want to change everything.”  
  
He hears her react. It’s the single worst thing in the world.

She doesn’t quite gasp, but Killian can hear Emma’s breath catch lightly in her throat and it takes every single ounce of _something_ in him to open his eyes and look at her. She’s still staring, eyes wide and lips parted slightly, looking at him like he’s just told her the biggest lie in the universe.

Or like he’s head over heels in love with her.

He really hopes that’s not what she’d look like if he told her that.

“Swan--”  
  
Emma shakes her head, strands of hair snapping against her neck and the jut of her chin and he’s always been particularly fascinated with the curve of her right ear. He’s the biggest creep in the world, honestly.

“Well, that settles that, doesn’t it?”

Killian has no idea what’s going on. He jerks his head towards Will, a bemused expression his partner’s face. “At this point I just assumed you guys have some kind of code that you’ve never told me about.”  
  
“We don’t have a code,” Emma argues. She still hasn’t looked away from Killian. It’s unnerving in the same way it’s kind of comforting, steady and consistent and, he’d like to believe, almost confident. In him. “I mean, you know, not yet, at least.”  
  
He’s getting whiplash from this conversation. “I don’t--” Killian starts, running an anxious hand through his hair. “Swan, you’ve got to make your point, love.”  
  
Will sounds like he’s dying. That customer in the booth laughs so loudly Killian briefly worries about the paint on those particular sections of wall.

It’s not a _thing_ , really. It’s just, kind of, sort of _their_ thing and he’s been doing it for as long as he can remember. At first because it very clearly drove her insane, but then because it made this very specific shade of pink linger in her cheeks and then, sometimes, if he’s very lucky, it ends with her teeth digging into her lower lip and--

Killian suddenly feels very lucky.

Even if that developer was talking about _drink concepts_ like that’s even a thing that makes sense.

“I don’t have to do anything,” Emma says. “Also you’re incredibly slow on the uptake today, you realize that?”  
  
Killian hums in confusion. “I don’t--”  
  
“--I know, I know, but...just, tell me what’s going on, ok?”  
  
He grits his teeth, not sure why he hasn’t told her already because she really does deserve to know and if this bar is his, then it’s also, at least, partially hers and it may only ever really feel like home because she’s there, but that also feels a little clingy and--

“Hey,” Emma mutters, interrupting whatever spiral Killian is drifting towards. Her fingers are cool when they wrap around his wrist, soft on his skin as her thumb traces a short line across his pulse point.

He swallows, a wad of emotion suddenly sitting in the back of his throat because this absolutely, positively was not supposed to happen this way.

“You know you can tell me anything, right?” Emma continues. Her voice doesn’t shake, which is probably for the best because Killian feels as if he’s several different metaphorical leaves, and she doesn’t object when he twists his hand to lace her fingers through his. She squeezes back.

Will gags.

“Why are you home so early, Swan?”  
  
“That’s not the question I was hoping for.”  
  
“That’s the question you’re going to get.”  
  
“I hate you.”  
  
“No you don’t.”  
  
Emma scowls, shoulders slumping enough that her hair pools against the bar top. “That’s stupid,” she sighs. “Ok, you have to promise not to freak. Because nothing happened and nothing is going to happen, but you really can’t tell David. He’ll drive down here to make sure I’m ok and--”  
  
“Emma,” Killian snaps, and that’s even worse than any single nickname he could come up with. She sticks her tongue out.

Will laughs.

“This is not that big of a deal,” she promises, but the words practically fly out of her and that’s a tell. Killian arches an eyebrow. “You remember that sneaker guy we’ve been going after?”  
  
He hums. He doesn’t actually trust himself to say anything else.

Idiot.

“Well, we got a lead about him in Hollis today and that’s not really us, but, like I said, we’d been building this whole case and--”  
  
“--Focus, love.”  
  
Emma scrunches her nose, but she definitely squeezes his hand again. “Anyway. We got there and the guy was trying to break into this display with all those vintage sneakers. Literally millions of dollars just sitting there and, uh...it got a little hectic.”  
  
“Hectic,” Killian repeats. “How?”  
  
“It’s not a big deal.” Killian looks back at Will – expression turned stony and maybe they should put up some Christmas decorations or something. That’s not really their schtick. “Oh my God, don’t look at him,” Emma growls. “This is not his story.”  
  
“And yet I’m still waiting on you, Swan,” Killian points out.

She twists her lips, tongue flashing between them in a way that should be distracting. “You promised not to freak out,” she reminds him. He widens his eyes. “There was uh...some gunfire exchanged.”

Killian knocks the stool over.

It sounds like the entire bar has been knocked over.

The guy at the front jumps up and Will takes another shot, a low murmur of emotion and concern working its way across the entire space. Killian, for his part, feels like he’s frozen.

He’s standing, fingers still twisted up with Emma’s, but he’s not entirely sure he’s breathing, if the burning sensation in the general vicinity of his lungs is any indication. And everything seems to slam into him suddenly – almosts and could have beens and he’s got no idea what he would do if--

No.

That is a dangerous train of thought and one he can’t possibly afford. Emma hisses when he, apparently, squeezes her hand too tightly. Killian’s eyes widen again, his inhale so sharp it only serves to hurt his lungs even more and he’s not sure he’s ever moved that fast, all but sprinting around the back of the bar and cupping her face in his hands.

Emma doesn’t flinch, but she does stiffen slightly and he supposes that’s fair. He’s kind of looming over, fear and _what ifs_ rolling off him in almost palpable waves. She has to shift to rest her palms flat on his chest, tugging lightly on the tie he’d put on for a guy he hadn’t even wanted to meet.

“If this is you not freaking out, then we need to reexamine your definition of the word,” Emma mumbles, drawing a shaky laugh out of Killian and he doesn’t think before pressing his lips to the crown of her hair.

God, her hair is so soft.

“It’s a phrase anyway, really,” Will reasons. He’s crouched down, grabbing rum that they don’t let any of the regulars ever drink and only save for occasions, but Killian figures almost going out of business and avoiding death are both reasonable reasons.

“That’s true,” he agrees. He has to take another deep breath before he can even consider moving, moving his hands to Emma’s shoulders and the bend of her elbows, not quite taking inventory, but drifting dangerously close to creep again.

She’s laughing. He can feel her moving against him.

“Are you ok?” Killian asks, but that only elicits more laughter and he’s not quite sure what to do with that. “Swan, c’mon, this is--”  
  
“--I know, I know, it is,” Emma interrupts. “And really, I’m not trying to downplay how absolutely terrifying the last, like, twelve hours of my life have been. But like...obviously I am ok. If I were bleeding out, do you think I’d be here antagonizing, Scarlet?”

“She brings up another very good point,” Will mutters. He slides two glasses of the expensive rum towards them.

“Oh my God, Emma,” Killian sighs. His eyes close of their own volition that time, something that feels like real and genuine exhaustion settling on his shoulders. Or, like, he’s entire life. It’s probably a metaphor.

She has to lean back against his forearm – he’s moved his arm at some point, he’s got no memory of that, but it’s wrapped around her waist and they’re very close and maybe have been very close and this is almost how it all started before and--

“Hey,” Emma mutters, tapping the pads of her fingers against his cheek. “Not even grazed. Justice was served and goodness prevailed, but I was, uh--well, getting shot at has a tendency to mess with your head a little bit and they more or less told me to get out of there.”  
  
“Did you put up a fight on that front?”  
  
“Nah, I wanted to come home.”

It’s not the first time he’s heard her say that very specific word. And it’s true, honestly. This is her home and his home and their home in some collective way that roommates share, but Killian only just realized his very God awful day had the potential to be the single worst day in the history of any day and he kisses her hair again.

It always smells like vanilla.

And kind of difficult to move against the reindeer antlers that are still on her head.

“I’m fine,” Emma promises. She twists again, moving so she can wrap her arms around Killian’s middle, pulling herself flush against her chest until there’s a considerable amount of her touching far too much of him. “Honestly. I’m just--don’t move for a sec, ok?”  
  
Killian nods. He’s not sure he could move if he tried.

And Will shakes his whole head when Killian glances at him, smile knowing and eyes almost amused when he crosses his arms.

“It’s idiotic,” Will mumbles. “The whole goddamn thing.”  
  
The guy at the front of the bar shouts something that may be an agreement.

Killian flips Will off. He doesn’t actually move his arms away from Emma.

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on with you now?” she asks, tilting her head back.

That’s cheating. He’s not sure how, exactly, but Killian is positive he’ll figure it out sooner or later and probably after he stops staring directly at her eyes and the tilt of her lips and there’s a hint of pink on both of her cheeks that he’d like to imagine he helped put there.

He genuinely enjoys torturing himself.

“I promise, it’s not nearly that important, Swan,” Killian says, waving Will off when he makes a strangled sound at the blatantly obvious lie.

Emma lifts her eyebrows. “You want to try that again?”  
  
“I thought you were supposed to be off the clock, Detective.”  
  
“Justice never sleeps. Or something less lame than that. Oh my God, shut _up_ , Scarlet.”

Will does not, in fact, shut up. His laugh gets louder and less restrained, doubling over on himself when the sound practically ricochets out of him.

It’s catching.

Killian’s own laugh doesn’t start loud, but he feels like it could maybe get there, body shaking against Emma’s and the slightly disbelieving look on her face is more than enough to inspire several thousand smiles. That’s the single lamest thought he’s ever had.

Bar none.

But then she’s exhaling softly and her hands are moving again, back on his chest until it feels like they’re restarting his vaguely cynical and only recently terrified heart, and her laugh is his single favorite sound in the entire world.

The three of them stand there for a moment – hysterical and ridiculous, with a half-filled bar gaping at them like crazy people and none of them have actually had any of the exceptionally expensive rum yet.

That feels important.

“Life threatening events make you very snippy, Em,” Will mutters eventually, dragging the back of his hand against his cheek.

She flips him off with both hands. Killian can’t possibly kiss her hair again. There are still, some, lines. “Seriously, shut up,” Emma hisses. “You are ruining my plan.”  
  
“Wait, what?” Killian asks, but Emma is already mumbling _no no no_ under her breath.

“You have to tell me what happened with you first,” she says. “Those are the rules or turnabout or whatever.”  
  
“Where’d you get the antlers?”  
  
“Seriously, you are so bad at answering questions?”  
  
“Yes, that’s what the--shit, what’s that guy’s name?”  
  
Will shrugs. “Some kind of element. Potassium? Plutonium? Robert Plutonium?”  
  
“Robert Plutonium? Are you kidding me?”  
  
“You were the one who spent all day with him. And not to agree with Em on literally anything ever, but she’s not the only one interested in what the developer had to say.”  
  
Emma’s hands fall back to her sides. “A developer? What--what does that mean? How long have you been talking to a developer?”  
  
“Not long,” Killian says, but she’s staring at him like it’s the worst lie he’s ever told. “Honestly, love. Barely even more than a few weeks.”  
  
“A few weeks! And you didn’t mention it once?”  
  
“That was a bad move, Jones,” Will nods. He’s moved backwards, perched on the edge of a different counter with that same confident smile on his face that helped them get the first loan from the first bank all those years ago. Killian gapes at him. “I’m just saying,” Will continues. “Emma’s like you’re emotional guidepost. It’s genuinely been blowing my mind that you haven’t told her about this yet.”  
  
“There hasn’t been anything to tell,” Killian says, but that’s _definitely_ a lie and it’s probably wrong to lie to a police officer who was fired upon that afternoon.

And his roommate. Who may really be the best _best_ friend he’s got in the great, big hierarchy of best friends.

That he’s in love with.

Irrevocably. And completely. And several other adverbs.

Killian huffs, turning back towards an almost-patient looking Emma. She’s got her lips twisted again, a look she usually reserves for when he moves her shoes away from the door or critiques her dish-drying technique.

“Once more with feeling,” Emma whispers, a note of something that may be a genuine threat just on the edge of her voice.

Killian snaps his fingers. “Gold. The guys’ name is Gold. God, how did I forget that?”  
  
“I’d imagine you’ve got plenty of other things on your mind,” Will answers archly. “Also you’re incredibly old, so the memory loss is to be expected. And what did our dear Mr. Gold ask of us today?”  
  
“He’s buying up the rest of the block.”  
  
“Ah, shit.”  
  
“Those were essentially my sentiment exactly.”  
  
Emma makes a noise that sounds a bit like a growl and the general sense of frustration Killian can feel simmering in the pit of his stomach. Her eyes are hard when he looks at her – barely more than slits of green and he almost wouldn’t be surprised to find her hair emitting actual wavelengths of energy.

“A developer is trying to buy up your entire block?” she asks, a forced calmness to the question that makes Killian wince. He nods. “And he’s been talking to you for weeks? And you didn’t--you didn’t once think to mention that to me?”  
  
“It’s not--”  
  
“--Oh my God, if you tell me it’s not a big deal I will strangle you here. Right here. Behind your bar.”  
  
“This is why you’re not supposed to be behind the bar,” Will mutters, drawing a half-nervous laugh out of Killian and another pointed glare out of Emma.

“And,” he adds. “If you strangle me here, then the bar becomes a crime scene and I doubt Mr. Gold would want a crime scene in his vision for making Astoria great again.”  
  
Whatever noise Will makes is not human. “Did he actually use that phrase?”  
  
“Not in so many words, but the sentiment was there. There was several allusions to open floor concepts and natural lighting and--”  
  
“--Has he ever seen this bar?” Emma interrupts. “There is no natural light in here. It’s a cave.”  
  
“Wow, that is scathing, Swan.”  
  
“A very nice cave.”  
  
“Better.”  
  
She scoffs, taking a step away from him and he shouldn’t regret that as much as he does. Maybe that should be the actual subheadline of his life. “This guy wants to shut down the bar?”  
  
“Eh,” Killian and Will say at the same time.

“What does that mean?”  
  
“It means that he’s less interested in shutting down the bar and just kind of...bulldozing it,” Killian says, and the smile on his face hurts every single one of the muscles in his face. It’s that fake.

Emma’s mouth drops open.

“He told me today he’s basically got the whole block. The coffee place, the pita place, that hair salon’s been closed forever, so that was, like, the easiest thing he’s ever done. It’s just...us left.”  
  
“We’re the holdouts,” Will grins, like the whole thing is some great, big joke and not their entire lives. It’s easier to deal with that way.

“And how do you plan on continuing to hold out?” Emma asks.

Killian tilts his head. “That seems to suggest you think we’re going to do that.”  
  
“Are you not?”  
  
“Well, yeah, but--”  
  
“--See, this is why I was certain you guys had some kind of code,” Will interrupts. “She knows all your tricks, Jones. It’s a miracle we’ve been able to keep it a secret for so long.”  
  
“A Christmas miracle,” Emma corrects. Her smile isn’t quite as wide as it normally is, but it’s tugging at the edges of her mouth and Killian knows she’s trying to look confident for him. He resists the urge to kiss her. Again. At all times. “So, c’mon, tell me, what are you guys going to do? There’s got to be a plan.”  
  
“There’s not really,” Killian admits. “We’re more or less hinging all our hopes on finding some kind of his historical relevance to this building.”  
  
“Are you kidding me?”  
  
“I told you there wasn’t much of a plan.”

Emma shakes her head, tongue moving between her lips again and Killian can almost hear the metaphorical gears starting to turn. It doesn’t surprise him. She’s always been impossibly stubborn and when she sets her mind on something, there’s very little that will stop her from getting it.

Which is why the whole _incident_ was so goddamn disappointing.

If she’d wanted it, she absolutely positively would have brought it up again and neither one of them have ever said anything and--he needs to stop. This is cruel and unusual and self-inflicted.

Her hair had felt so incredibly soft in between his fingers though. And there was that one sound – not quite a whimper, but something like giving in and accepting and _wanting_ , pressed against the curve of his jaw when she’d pulled her head back and Killian would open sixteen-thousand bars only to sell every single one of them to some dick of a developer if it meant he got to hear Emma make that sound one more time.

They’d been very drunk, the five-year anniversary of the bar and more over-priced alcohol, stumbling up the stairs back into their apartment with fumbled keys and laughter and wandering hands. And neither one of them said anything even coming close to _stop_ , just moved into each other’s space like they were falling into each other’s atmosphere and the whole thing had felt so incredibly normal.

That was probably the best and worst part. Equally. It felt like it was supposed to, like breathing or sharing the same space and that one, particular noise was going to haunt Killian even after he was dead, he was positive.

“That’s like...negative amounts of a plan,” Emma nods. “So what exactly are you going to do? Just keep dodging this guy until the end of time.”  
  
“Or the aliens attack,” Will adds.

“And if the aliens attack, then we’re hoping they’ll also just avoid this building and let us keep providing alcohol to the general populace,” Killian says. “Or the Doctor will show up and the aliens won’t actually be attacking. They’ll be nicer than we expected. Or--”  
  
“--God, how is there more?” Emma asks, but she’s almost laughing now too and Killian’s smile doesn’t feel as forced.

“The aliens will hear our distress call, know we’re barely staying above ground in the fight against modernism and they’ll just go attack Mr. Plutonium instead.”  
  
“I thought his name was Gold.”  
  
“I’m really feeling partial to Plutonium now.”  
  
“I don’t think that’s even on the Periodic Table. And Plutonium is more than this guy deserves. He should be like...tin or something.”  
  
Will lets out a low whistle, pouring something because, despite whatever the developer’s name is, they still do have a regular customer base and _regulars_ and Killian genuinely doesn’t know what he’s going to do if this all gets tugged out from underneath him.

Maybe cry or something.

That seems kind of lame.

“Tin sounds almost insulting, Swan.”  
  
Emma nods again. “That’s totally the point. Do you--he really wants to buy the bar to tear it down?”  
  
“I see no reason why he’d lie to us. It’s a good amount of money too. Enough that we’d probably be able to figure out something without having to do it immediately, but…”  
  
“You guys are giant saps and you don’t want to sell your bar,” Emma says, more of that certainty and confidence.

“Yeah, exactly that.”  
  
“So it’s just been a complete and total shit day for all of us, hasn’t it?”  
  
“Exactly that,” Killian repeats. “Where’d you get your antlers, Swan?”  
  
“That really creepy party supply store right off the R-Train.”  
  
Killian’s answering laugh is far too loud to be acceptable in any sort of normal social environment, but he figures the rules are a little different in his own bar with the subject of his possible one-sided pining standing in front of him wearing goddamn reindeer antlers like a beacon of Christmas potential. “I think I’d like to get vaguely buzzed,” he announces, and Will shouts something that sounds a hell of a lot like _finally_.

He does, in fact, get slightly more than buzzed – a seemingly never-ending stream of glasses pushed Killian’s direction in between doing his actual job and acknowledging customers and Emma does, eventually, get back on the right side of the bar.

Technically.

Killian doesn’t ever really mind when she stands back there.

And it’s closing in on last call, his vision swimming just a little bit because it’s been a _day_ and he’s probably a little dehydrated at this point when Will pushes on his shoulder. “God, what?” Killian asks sharply.

“You a little drunk?” Will counters.

“No, no, I’m--”  
  
“--Literally the world’s worst liar. Gold offered again? With the money?”  
  
Killian nods, wiping his hands absentmindedly on the front of his jeans. “He said we’re the only ones stopping him from, and I’m quoting here, making this official, so if we don’t come to terms sooner rather than later, we’ll be, you’re going to enjoy this, impeding progress.”  
  
“It’s like he’s reading from a script isn’t it?”  
  
“Honestly, I’m almost insulted by the distinct lack of creativity. I wonder if he gets his inspiration from Mr. Potter. Or the Grinch.”  
  
“I don’t like either of these examples,” Will says. “Because I think it makes me Uncle Billy and Max the dog respectively and I don’t know how to feel about that.”

“At least Uncle Billy actually makes sense, you know, name wise.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah, that’s generous of you.” He sighs, running a hand over his face and Killian isn’t sure he’s seen him look that exhausted since he spent three straight days trying to cram for a chemistry final during their sophomore year. If memory served, he hadn’t done all that great on that exam.

Killian hopes that’s not a sign.

“She was really freaked, you know,” Will says suddenly, jerking Killian’s attention back to the present and he realizes she’s not sitting on the stool anymore.

He scans the bar, only a few stragglers shrugging on coats and grumbling about the threat of overnight snow, a noise that feels like relief and sounds like something else entirely when his eyes land on her – curled up in a booth with her head on his balled-up jacket.

“That’s not subtle either,” Killian says.

“Yeah, I wasn’t trying to be. She was...I told her I didn’t know when you’d get back and she said she didn’t care, just wanted to be here when you did show and it took forever to finally get to give up what had that look on her face.”  
  
“And what look was that?”  
  
It’s a selfish question. It’s a needy question. Killian doesn't move his gaze away from Emma.

“Like she’d just watched her whole life flash in front of her eyes and realized she’d wasted a good amount of it not making out with her roommate,” Will says.

Killian has to bite his tongue to stop from dissolving into a puddle of several different emotions. “That’s a rather pointed opinion.”  
  
“It’s an obvious opinion. One several people share. Strangers on the street see you two together and immediately share that same opinion.”  
  
“C’mon, it’s not--”  
  
“--Why didn’t you tell her about this guy?”  
  
Killian turns his head. And that’s another mistake because Will is staring expectantly at him – brows lifted and one side of his mouth quirked up, a different towel than before draped over his shoulder. “I didn’t want her to worry,” Killian mutters. “I knew she was looking for that guy and it’s Christmas--there’s always more, you know, crime or whatever. Plus, we’ve got to go home in a couple weeks and…”  
  
“The fact that you just referred to Storybrooke, her hometown, as home and the place you’re going for Christmas gives me pause.”  
  
“I always go up there for Christmas.”  
  
He had – ever since he got assigned David Nolan as a roommate and David could not understand the concept of another human spending Christmas alone. So Killian had gone home with him, to Storybrooke, Maine, and met his mother and his little sister and everything had spiraled from there.

Driving back to Storybrooke with Emma is one of Killian’s favorite parts of Christmas now.

Will hums, and Killian wishes he’d do something with his face. “Right, right. So let me get this straight, you didn’t want to tell Emma that some asshole wants to buy our bar so he can single-handedly continue the gentrification of our neighborhood because you didn’t want to worry her when she’s got so much crime to fight before the two of you go to Maine to spend time with her family on a holiday that, at its core, is, like, the most family holiday ever?”  
  
“Don’t you think that’s Thanksgiving?”  
  
“No,” Will says easily. “And I think you looked like you’d seen several ghosts when she told you what happened today.”  
  
Killian’s stomach twists. “Yeah, well,” he reasons. “I…”  
  
“God, it’s so dumb. The whole thing is so incredibly dumb. Both of you.”  
  
“What?”  
  
Will doesn’t answer, just shakes his head and pushes Killian back towards the booth where Emma is still sleeping. “Take your very platonic roommate back to the apartment you share. Platonically. Where you can platonically tell her that you don’t know what you’d do if you lost her. Platonically.”

“You said that word so many times, I’m not even sure it has real meaning anymore,” Killian says, mostly so he can ignore the fluttering in his chest. Will totally knows that. As exhibited by the middle finger flashed his direction.

There’s no possible way Emma can be comfortable. It is, after all, a very old bar and very old booths and the wood can’t be very forgiving on her spine, but she doesn’t stir much when Killian walks forward – or when he winces at the sound his knee makes when he crouches by her head.

“Jesus,” he grumbles, reaching out a hand to brush a stray piece of hair away from her forehead before he can think better of it. “Swan.”

Nothing. No sound. No noise. She does move her head slightly though, like she’s trying to shift closer to his hand and there’s no way his internal organs can hold up to this for much longer.

“Swan,” Killian repeats. Still nothing. “Emma.”  
  
Her eyelids flutter. Figures.

“C’mon, love, it’s after last call. We’ve got to go home.”  
  
She opens her eyes, and for half a second it’s so goddamn endearing Killian is certain his entire soul has moved to some other plane because she looks at him like...everything and then some, lips curling up into a smile as she presses her cheek against his palm. She’s still got the antlers on her head.

“Did I fall asleep?”  
  
Killian hums. “Only for a little while, though. Probably didn’t mess up your sleeping patterns too much at all.”  
  
“Small miracles.”  
  
“Of the almost-Christmas variety.”  
  
“Is it weird that I fell asleep in your bar? That seems like it should be more weird.”  
  
“No, no, it’s cute.”  
  
“Cute?”  
  
“Cute,” Killian confirms, despite the rather loud alarm bells going off in his brain. This is suddenly dangerous and very thin ice. “And festive. Or something.”

Emma’s laugh is quiet, but his hand is still touching her and he can feel her breath on his skin. So, he’ll probably think about that until New Year’s. At least. “You going to walk me home?”  
  
“Would be rude otherwise. Scarlet knows how to lock doors.”  
  
“I don’t think it’s cute that you’re falling asleep in our bar, Em,” Will calls as she stands up, using Killian to keep her balance. That may be the only reason he doesn’t say anything to Will. “I think it’s a sign.”  
  
“Oh, yeah?” Emma asks. “Of what?”  
  
“I’m not at liberty to say.”  
  
She makes a face – all eyebrows and wide eyes, but she’s also leaning against Killian’s side and hasn’t actually objected to the arm around her shoulders, so maybe they’re all just going insane. Collectively.

Maybe Robert Gold won’t want to buy a building from crazy people.

“C’mon, love,” Killian says. “Let’s get out of here.”

Their apartment isn’t that far from the bar – only two blocks away, and they don’t move very quickly. It’s snowing, after all, but not quite frigid and the city-provided lights wrapped around the street lamps are almost enough to make Killian forget about all the bad lingering just on the outside of all of this.

And, really, he thinks that’s going to be it.

They walk the two blocks, Emma hands him her keys because she’s not always entirely coherent when she’s only just woken up, toeing out of her boots as soon as the door is closed behind her. And that should be it.

He’s got every intention of asking her if she’s alright again, but nothing more than that and--

“You know I never actually got to my part of the plan,” Emma says, which may be one of the last thing Killian expects her to say.

“What?”  
  
“My plan. I got distracted by gunshots and you not telling me stuff and me being kind of right when I was only half suggesting some asshole was trying to steal your bar.”  
  
“He’d give us money, Swan.”  
  
“It’s still stealing somehow.”  
  
“What’s your plan?”  
  
Emma takes a deep, the smile on her face moving in what feels like actual slow motion. “I want to reclaim our festivity.”  
  
“I don’t...I don’t understand.”  
  
“This is why I got the antlers. At first it was mostly because someone shot a gun at me today--”  
  
“--Fucking hell, Emma,” Killian groans, an exasperation in the words that doesn’t likely belong in any sort of platonic relationship. Especially one that’s discussing Christmas. But his lungs don’t seem to care and his ability to pull in oxygen is suddenly non-existent.

She winces. “If I make jokes about it, it’s a little bit easier.”  
  
“Please don’t make jokes about it.”

He hates that he sounds a bit like he’s begging, but he’s also a little more buzzed than he’d originally planned on being and only just realized that his jacket will probably smell like Emma’s hair for the next few weeks. At least.

Probably until Christmas.

There’s an odd poetry to it.

Of the torturous variety.

Emma nods, twisting her lip between her teeth and fisting her hands at her side. “No more jokes, I promise. Just--tourist attractions. And maybe some eggnog. When’s the last time you think you had eggnog?”

“I don’t know that I’ve had eggnog ever.”  
  
“How is that possible?”  
  
“Do you drink eggnog all the time?”

“Well, no, but that’s my point.”  
  
“This is the most roundabout way of getting there,” Killian says, if only because he knows it’ll get her to stop biting her lip. It does.

She smiles, stepping further into the apartment and sprawling on the couch. Killian doesn’t move, but then Emma’s crooking a finger towards him. It doesn’t take very long to walk after that, a few steps and his knee brushing hers when he sits down.

“Ok, so everything happened today and, well, I’ve got a good chunk of holiday time that I wasn’t going to take--”  
  
“--You are seriously the most stubborn human being on the planet, do you know that? Holiday time is meant to be taken off.”  
  
“I am never going to get to the plan if you keep interrupting me,” Emma says, but it comes out more like a sigh. They’ve moved a bit, slumping against cushions and blankets with Emma’s head resting on Killian’s shoulder. It’s more comfortable that way, he reasons. “Anyway,” she continues. “I have time and now, you know, they’re giving me some time and--”  
  
“--Swan!”  
  
“I can’t threaten to murder you in here. I like this apartment too much.”  
  
“That’s generous of you, love.”  
  
“‘Tis the season or whatever,” Emma grumbles, rapping her knuckles on his stomach. “The point I am desperately trying to make is that I’ve got some time off and we’ve got a whole city at our fingertips with a reputation for being particularly fun during Christmas. I think we should take advantage of that. Reclaim our festivity, as it were.”  
  
“And how do you propose we do that?”

“Well, we drink some goddamn eggnog first. But then we do all the stupid Christmas stuff in New York. A variety of trees and holiday markets and you know I’ve never been ice skating once in my life.”  
  
“It’s not that much fun,” Killian says. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Swan, but all of these things sound decidedly like tourist traps.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Wow, that’s a much quicker agreement than I was anticipating.”  
  
“The tourists go there for reason. And I haven’t done them in forever. It could be fun.”  
  
“Or we could get trampled,” Killian counters. “Mad shoppers in the Bryant Park holiday market.”  
  
“I sincerely doubt that.”

Killian scoffs, considering the idea for a moment and, for half of that moment, it doesn’t seem that bad. Even with the threat of tourists and the possibility of making a complete fool of himself on some yet-to-be-determined skating rink.

Because, above all else, he really does enjoy spending time with Emma and it may be nice to remember that this time of year is, usually, nice. It may be nice to forget about Robert whatever his last name is for a few hours.

And he’s just about to agree, to promise _that sounds good, Swan_ when she swings her legs over his, head tilted up to meet his eyes. He swallows back every word.

“I just…” Emma starts, scrunching her nose when she cuts herself off. “It started because I was feeling like shit and then I bought the stupid antlers, but then you weren’t at the bar and Scarlet wouldn’t give you up. I tried every interrogation technique I know.”  
  
“It’s because he’s not a normal human. That’s not a marker on your interrogation skills, love.”

“That’s generous. But I had half this plan and I was totally going to say something as soon as you got to the bar. Only then you got to the bar and were so annoyed, like, glowing with annoyance and I knew I was going to have to tell you about today and it all kind of snowballed and--”  
  
“--Was that a pun?”  
  
“Not intentionally.”  
  
“That’s impressive,” Killian murmurs. His fingers are moving. That’s weird. He can’t remember deciding to do that, but they’re dragging up the side of Emma’s arm and she hasn’t actually told him to stop.

“You’re on a compliment roll. Basically what I’m saying is it started as this very selfish thing that I was going to kind of drag you along with kicking and screaming, but if anyone deserves to have their festiveness restored than it’s you Mr. Ebenezer Grinch.”  
  
Killian chokes on the minimal amount of air in his lungs. “Ebenezer Grinch?”  
  
“Don’t forget the Mr. That’s important too.”  
  
“That doesn’t even make any sense.”  
  
“It does,” Emma objects. “I’m not entirely sure how, but I’m sure it does. So I want...I want to help. You and me. But mostly you now. I want to do something good. With us, I mean. Ah, no, that’s not what I mean. Not us _us_ , just, like, you and me doing something together. As a unit. For Christmas. Oh God that sounds worse, doesn’t it?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“No?”  
  
“No,” Killian repeats. “If you’re going to make me drink eggnog though, you’re going to buy it, Swan. I’m not sure I’ll be able to drum up the courage.”  
  
It’s enough to get her to laugh again, head falling against his chest and Killian can feel her inhale deeply. “I’ve stolen so much of your alcohol stock over the years, it only seems fair we even it up at some point.”  
  
“This is definitely the way to do it.”

She makes a noise against his shirt, burrowing further against him. Maybe they can find spiked eggnog. Killian feels like he’s downed several gallons. “So that’s a plan, then? Operation: get festive is a go?”  
  
“Should we wear matching jackets?”  
  
“Don’t think I haven’t considered matching sweaters.”  
  
“That actually doesn’t surprise me,” Killian says, and it sounds like a far larger admission. “When did you want to go?”  
  
“Saturday?”  
  
“Saturday!”  
  
“Saturday.”  
  
“You want to go into the city on a Saturday in December? To tourist attractions?”  
  
“Part of the festivity is being around other people,” Emma reasons. “And we’ll go places besides the tourist attractions. I’m totally going to make a list.”  
  
“Of course you are. If I get run over by some family of five from Pennsylvania, all of them holding a variety of bags from Macy’s and several from those I Love NY stores in Midtown, not only am I going to hold you personally responsible, but I’m going to come back and haunt you for the rest of your life.”

Emma presses her lips together – clearly doing her best not to laugh in his face. Killian isn’t sure if he appreciates that or not. Until she brushes her lips over his cheek, so quick he’s nervous he just imagined it, but he can’t possibly have imagined the way his entire body seems to light up at it and then he’s far too busy trying to cope with Emma curled against his side to worry about anything else.

“This will be fun,” she promises. “Festive. Close your eyes, Jones.”  
  
“Swan, we own beds.”  
  
“Yeah and I don’t want to get up. So either you’re going to carry me to bed or you’re just going to move slightly and we can both fit almost comfortably on this couch.”  
  
“That’s insane.”  
  
“In case you haven’t noticed, that’s how today has been.” Emma takes a deep breath, the arm around Killian’s stomach tightening slightly. “I can move if you want though.”  
  
She doesn’t quite whisper the last few words, but it’s dangerously close – a hint of nerves that he doesn’t ever want her to feel around him. And, well, that decides that.

“No, Swan, it’s fine,” Killian says, maneuvering them until they’re both on their sides and it doesn’t take very long for either one of them to fall asleep.

With her hair in his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for every click and comment and kudos. And especially thanks to @xellewoods for being delightful and having excellent wants in fic. 
> 
> Come flail on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/) if you're down.


	2. Chapter 2

He’s never actually been to hell, but Killian assumes if he were to ever visit, it would be very similar to standing in the middle of Times Square on a Saturday in December.

Three different tourists have already run into him. One with a particularly aggressive shopping bag.

There is a person taking pictures of...something half an inch in front of him. They’re also standing on his left toe. But Emma is also holding on tightly to his right hand, so Killian figures that evens it out.

Or something.

It’s a few days after they first decided to do this – recapturing their festivity and Emma has been nothing if not a complete force for Christmas goodness. There have been cookies baking almost constantly in their less-than-impressive oven all week, a constant scent of sugar hanging in the air that Killian is certain is going to, eventually, do some serious damage to his cholesterol levels, She keeps bringing the cookies into the bar.

The regulars have started making requests. There were some questions about some kind of chocolate wreath-shaped thing that had filling and Emma had spent the next two hours crouched over her phone doing research.

There’s been Christmas music playing on loop whenever he wakes up as well, the quiet hum of Michael Buble’s voice seemingly working its way into Killian’s subconscious, and the list of tourist traps they’re getting ready to traipse to this afternoon has been hanging on the refrigerator door since Tuesday.  

And, honestly, from the outside looking in, this is not a bad thing. This is a very nice, very festive thing. But from the inside looking out, it’s also kind of a worrisome thing because Killian cannot remember the last time Emma looked up a recipe for anything, let alone some random international dessert, and he’d spent those same two hours casting meaningful glances Will’s direction.

He’d been no help at all.

Figured.

So Killian is only a little concerned that this is all some great, big coping device and a distraction and he knows the last place to broach that particular subject is the middle of Times Square with a tourist resting most of his weight on his left foot, but there’s this knot in the pit of his stomach that hasn’t gone away in days and maybe won’t ever go away and he’s not entirely sure what he would have done if something had happened to her.

Or what will happen if Robert whatever-his-last-name-is calls his phone again. He’s called six times in the last four days. His assistant has called ten times more. Killian is very seriously considering throwing his phone up Broadway at some point this afternoon.

Maybe he’s just eaten too many cookies.

Emma is also questionably good at baking, it seems.

That figures too.

“Hey,” Emma says, tugging lightly on his hand. Neither one of them are wearing gloves. “You want to walk while you ponder whatever serious thoughts you’re pondering right now?”  
  
“Who says I’m pondering anything? Serious or otherwise?”  
  
“Your thought face.”  
  
Killian chokes on air that doesn’t smell like garbage anymore, but does, somehow, smell kind of smoky and there’s _something_ coming up from the vent on the other side of the block. The tourist in front of him does not appreciate whatever undignified sound he makes, glancing over his shoulder at him with a look that could probably melt snow into disgusting sidewalk slush.

“Oh my God,” Killian mumbles, and this is not the bright, festive outlook he promised Emma he’d bring when she handed him a mug of coffee that morning. “You are not part of this conversation. Just keep walking. Right across the street.”  
  
The tourist blinks. And does not walk.

Killian can feel his phone buzzing in his pocket.

“Do you know how to get to Rockefeller Center? The one with the ice skating rink, I mean.”

Killian glances around to make sure there aren’t any hidden cameras. There aren’t. Just the normal cameras and traffic cameras and, God, there are a lot of very obvious cameras in the middle of Times Square.

He supposes that’s a good thing. Security. Or something. And no one getting shot. _God_.

The tourist waits expectantly for an answer, ignoring the small crowd that is forming behind them because they all refuse to walk across 44th Street in a timely fashion.

“Wait, what?” Killian asks, brain not quite ready for the specifics of the question. He’s half positive he’s being Punk’d. He’s not sure Punk’d is a thing anymore.

“The Center with the ice skating,” the tourist repeats. He shifts the bags in his hands, knocking one with an I Love NY emblem against Killian’s calf. Emma is honestly doing a God awful job of not laughing, although he’s fairly certain she’s not laughing at the tourist.

Killian’s definitely the jerk in this situation.

“You’re going the right way up,” she answers, twisting against Killian’s side to block another plastic bag strike. Or maybe just move closer to him. He really hopes for the second one. His phone has stopped buzzing. “Five more blocks to 49th, but then you’ve got to head back East. Over towards 5th Ave.”  
  
“Which way is East?”  
  
Killian resists the urge to shout slightly dated comedy routines in a tourist’s face. He assumes that was not on the list of how to reclaim their festivity 101. He also assumes that was not the name for the day.

Emma would have come up with a better name.

“That way,” Emma says, nodding towards her right. “Two blocks over towards 5th Ave.”  
  
“Ah, technically three, right?” Killian asks. He winces when he realizes he’s joined the conversation, squeezing Emma’s hand slightly in apology.

“Seven minus five is two. That is like...the most basic math in the world.”  
  
“I’m not disagreeing with that, love. I’m just saying,” he waves his free arm towards Broadway. “That’s also a street. So that should be three blocks.”  
  
“It’s, like, three feet of space.”  
  
“Still counts as a street.”  
  
Emma shakes her head. The tourist looks very confused. People are moving around them now. There are so many honking cars. “No, no, no,” she chants, and this probably shouldn’t be enjoyable. It’s definitely not on the list. “That’s ridiculous.”  
  
“The street is right there, Swan. Look that guy almost got run over walking across it.”  
  
“Happy Holidays.”  
  
“I’m just saying,” Killian continues, almost entirely forgetting about the tourist and his bags and whatever desire he possesses to pay a ridiculous amount of money to go ice skating. “That’s a street and that should be included in a block.”  
  
“Nope.”  
  
“A block is a measure of street to street.”  
  
“That makes no sense,” Emma argues. She’s waving her other hand now too, strands of hair hitting against her cheeks and chin when she keeps shaking her head. Killian resists the urge to run his fingers through it.

That, however, would require him to let go of her hand, so…

“A city block is not a set measurement,” Killian says. “Think about 14th Street in between 6th and 7th Ave. It’s the longest block in the world.”  
  
“That is only because you think it is. Manhattan is a grid system.” Killian opens his mouth to object to that, or possibly quote some more stand-up routines, but Emma’s eyes narrow and he has to bite his tongue to stop himself from laughing too loudly. “Most of Manhattan is a grid system,” Emma amends, and he can’t help but smile. “City blocks should be consistent. And the minimal amount of space between 7th Avenue and Broadway right here should not count as a block. It’s, like, seriously a few feet.”  
  
“And also not part of the grid.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Not part of the grid,” Killian repeats, smile widening.

He’s not sure when this started, exactly, the almost too obvious attempts to poke each other’s even more obvious buttons, but it may honestly have started the first time they met and argued about something he also can’t remember. It might have been hockey.

It’s an unspoken kind of game now, an easy rhythm to it that always seems to time up with his pulse and the slightly erratic way Emma makes his heart beat. It’s fun.

They may be scandalizing the tourist.

Emma scowls, trying to tug her hand out of his grip so she can cross her arms over her chest. He doesn’t let her move. “How do you figure?”  
  
“Broadway doesn’t run north and south,” Killian answers. “It goes sort of diagonal across the city. You can’t have diagonal on a grid.”  
  
His smile turns into a grin – wide and _winning_ as soon as Emma huffs out a breath of frustration through her teeth. She twists her lips, jaw clenching and eyes narrowing and it probably isn’t supposed to be attractive, but Killian is mostly attracted to every single thing she does, so he’s not entirely surprised by it.

“Did I win?” Killian asks. “Three blocks?”  
  
“That is stupid.”  
  
“That’s not an answer, love.”  
  
“Literally the most stupid thing I have ever heard. Broadway shouldn’t count at all, then! In anything! It shouldn’t even be a street.”  
  
“It’s definitely a street. Look there are cars on it right now. I think this means I won and you just don’t want to admit it. What do I win?”  
  
“Shut up.”  
  
“Still not an answer,” he mutters, moving into her space with practiced ease and clicking his tongue in reproach when she swats at his chest. “Now, Swan, that’s hardly festive.”  
  
Emma sticks her tongue out.

The game, it seems, usually dissolves into something that some may consider flirting.

Killian doesn’t. Of course. Because he’s the world’s biggest idiot.

“You get nothing,” Emma says. “You lose. Good--”

“--Day, sir,” he finishes, the muscles in his face starting to ache from standing in the cold with a very confused tourist starting at them and smiling at Emma. “Was it on TV? Is that why that just happened?”  
  
“We should be monetizing your mind reading powers. I mean we’re in Times Square. Only seems right, huh?”

Killian chuckles, pressing a kiss to her hair and that’s been happening more in the last week, but he’s managed to rationalize it on the lingering hint of gunshots mixing in the air with the sugar and over-confident real estate developers.

Emma’s never actually told him to stop either.

“Is Willy Wonka a Christmas movie?” Killian asks, Emma shrugging in response. “That’s like...aren’t the kids supposed to represent the seven deadly sins or something?”  
  
“Were there seven kids?”  
  
“No, right? Charlie and Violet and Mike TV and the chocolate kid.”  
  
“The chocolate kid? Augustus?”  
  
Emma shrugs again. “I’m missing someone aren’t I? There’s one more kid.”  
  
“I’m not the one who watched it on TV recently enough to quote it,” Killian points out. “That can’t possibly be considered a Christmas movie. That’s not festive at all, it’s--”

“--You’re missing Veruca,” the tourist interrupts, and God Killian’s totally forgotten about the tourist. “Also agreed on the festiveness. I have no idea what the hell you were talking about with the blocks, but thanks for the directions. You both are incredibly cute.”  
  
He nods once, a tight smile and then he’s gone, a flash of bags and one side of his scarf hanging over his back.

Neither Emma nor Killian move.

A different tourist runs into them.

“I can’t believe we forgot Veruca,” Emma mumbles, barely audible over the rush of another push of pedestrians. “She’s the only one who gets a song.”  
  
“Not a Christmas song, though.”  
  
“That’s a very good point.”  
  
“I’m here to make those.”  
  
She hums, twisting again and, somehow, finding a few inches of a space she hadn’t been previously occupying which is why Killian can feel, with almost startling clarity, how quickly her body tenses when a car honks.

Emma’s breath catches, shoulders going tight and the arm that had been hanging at her side flies around Killian’s middle. She squeezes tightly, burying her head against his jacket and he’s only a little worried she’s going to cut her cheek on his zipper.

She doesn’t shake, still, but Killian can’t actually feel her inhale either and he’s not entirely sure what to do.

He swallows down the rather large wad of _whatever_ that’s returned to the back of his throat, shifting his weight so he can work his own arm around her, tracing mindless patterns against her back and the ends of her hair.

At some point, some part of his mind decides to start mumbling words against her, quiet promises and guarantees he’s got no business making – _it’s fine_ and _nothing’s happening, love_ and _I’m right here, Emma_. She tightens her hold on his middle, almost the wrong side of painful, particularly when his phone starts to make that obnoxious buzzing sound again.

“Is your phone ringing?” Emma asks, not quite able to mask the sniffle when she inhales again.

Killian nods. “Incessantly it seems.”  
  
“Should you be acknowledging that?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Is it Scarlet?”  
  
“No.”  
  
Emma leans back, an appraising look on her face. “Ok,” she says slowly. “I’m not...actually trying to pry, but apparently we’re doing this not telling each other stuff now and--” She grits her teeth when Killian’s eyes widen. “Damn, that’s not what I meant. I just…”  
  
“I know, Swan,” Killian promises. “And it wasn’t an intentional secret, more a biding my time secret until I figured out a way that it wouldn’t be an issue.”  
  
“And have you?”  
  
He shakes his head, disappointment slinking down his spine and threatening to freeze him to the spot. They could probably market that in Times Square, honestly. “No, nothing. And Scarlet said the pita people are a little annoyed with us now because Gold’s offering more money and threatening to get the city involved and--”  
  
“--Can he do that?”  
  
“I have no idea, which is part of my problem, honestly. But I’ve also got an actual business to run still and try to make money at so I haven’t been able to devote a ton of time to research.”

“Plus reclaiming your festivity,” Emma adds, voice dropping a hint in a way that is far too telling because they spend far too much time together and she’s definitely been using Christmas cookies as some kind of emotional buffer.

That tourist totally thought they were a couple.

God, Killian hates when Will is right. It’s so annoying.

“That’s something I was more than willing to dedicate several days to if I needed,” Killian says. He makes a face – a twist of eyebrows that always manages to get Emma’s lips to twitch slightly, the most delicious kind of festive themed torture.

“I think Scarlet would kill you. I already told him I’d bake him some kind of cookie loaf thing his mom used to make when he was a kid to make up for this.”

The ice at the base of Killian’s spine melts immediately, only to turn into fireworks and hope and so much goddamn want he can’t understand how it’s not just pouring out of every single one of his pores. Emma smiles. “You want some help? When you make it, I mean.”  
  
“I was thinking about doing it when we get home. Then he can eat it while he complains about how bad American football is tomorrow and wax poetic about the Premier League or whatever it is he watches.”

“The Netherlands National team.”  
  
“Is that weird?”  
  
“I think his mom went to Amsterdam once,” Killian reasons. “It’s definitely a family thing. What if we bake whatever cookie loaf whatever in wooden shoes. That’s festive, right?”  
  
“I think that may be a stereotype honestly.”  
  
He makes a dismissive noise in the back of his throat – another attempt to get Emma to smile that may, honestly, be just flirting. He is, admittedly, still having a difficult time hearing her call the apartment they have shared for literal years as home.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were trying to antagonize him on purpose,” Emma says, stabbing a finger into his jacket. They’ve finally started moving again, walking up 7th Ave with the throngs of tourists and flustered retail workers and Killian has absolutely no idea where their destination is.

“Would I do that?”  
  
“I think you are, currently.”  
  
“Nah,” Killian says, but it sounds exactly like the lie it is and he realizes where they’re heading. Towards that line wrapped around the corner of the block, shivering families and over-excited kids and Emma when her head falls against his shoulder.

“Damn,” she breathes. “I didn’t think this place got a line anymore. What year is it?”  
  
“It’s Saturday.”  
  
“Damn.”  
  
Killian hums in agreement because he can’t quite understand why anyone in their right mind would stand in line to get into the goddamn Hershey’s store. It’s a tiny space and it probably smells even more sugary than their apartment, the scent wafting onto the sidewalk every time someone opens up the door.

“How much do you think this door person gets an hour to direct this line?” Emma murmurs, not lifting her head up.

“Not nearly enough.”  
  
“Yeah, that’s true. Damn. Seriously. I know I just keep saying that, but David said Ruth wanted this one specific kind of hot chocolate.”  
  
“Oh, is that why we’re here?” Emma makes a noise that might be agreement or the growing sense of frustration at their inability to start the plan on the right foot. “It has to be Hershey’s?”

“So David claims.”  
  
“That is oddly specific.”  
  
“I’m just the messenger.”  
  
“It’s been appropriately delivered,” Killian says. He lets his cheek rest against the top of her hair, staring at the door to the Hershey store as it keeps swinging open and the, very likely underpaid, door attendant tries to explain why _you can’t go in quite yet_ to every person who asks him. “What about M&M hot chocolate? That’s like…”  
  
“Close?” Emma suggests.

“Like 7th Avenue and Broadway on 44th Street.”

It gets the laugh he was hoping for and the smile he was only slightly determined to work out of her, a breath of fresh air and brightness that would rival every light in Times Square in several hours. He’s thinking in metaphors now.

“Yeah,” Emma agrees. “Exactly like that. Alright, well we’re oh-for-one. It can only get better from here, right?”  
  
“That’s definitely the spirit, love.”

She nods once, a quick smile and even quicker tug to the end of the scarf she’d totally forced him to wear that morning, before grabbing his hand again and tugging him towards the M&M store on the other side of the street.

It’s a bigger store than its Hershey counterpart – several floors and more space between shelves and while there are still plenty of people crammed inside, it’s not impossible to breathe as soon as they try to move. Emma doesn’t let go of Killian’s hand. Or the the other way around. He honestly could not care less, just lets her direct them forward and it takes half a second to realize she’s humming along with the Christmas music they’re playing.

And Killian’s laugh seems to almost fall out of him, quiet and a little surprised because, even after all these years, he’s a little surprised by how _easy_ it is to remember how much he loves her. She keeps humming, head moving with the beat every now and then until the music shifts and stops and--

“God, what the hell is that?” Emma asks sharply as a painfully cheery voice announces _it’s time for our hourly holiday giveaway_ over the PA system. “They give away something every hour?”  
  
“I don’t think they’re exactly lacking for funds here, Swan.”  
  
“You’re a miser.”  
  
“No, no, Scrooge never would have made Jacob Marley baked goods when he got home later.”  
  
“You are helping. You’re not making them and--wait, wait, I know the answer to that question!”  
  
He hadn’t heard the question. It clearly doesn’t matter though, because Emma is moving and Killian’s got no choice to follow her, twisting around displays and oversized versions of the M&Ms on the TV commercials and there’s a glint in her eyes that he hasn’t seen in _forever_ as soon as they skid to a stop on the side of the cash registers.

“Hi,” she says brightly to a polo-wearing worker who only looks a little stunned by the enthusiasm in front of her. “I know the answer to your trivia, giveaway thing.”  
  
The theme of the day may actually be both Emma and Killian overwhelming strangers across Midtown Manhattan.

The girl’s eyes dart across Emma’s face, likely looking for signs of impending insanity because he can only imagine the kind of people who come into the M&M store shouting about things throughout December, but she doesn’t appear to find anything entirely wrong and her answering smile is only a little tremulous and customer service appropriate.

“You know what other Christmas song was referenced in Christmas (Baby please come home)? By Michael Bublé?”  
  
“Well, I mean all of them. The lyrics don’t change just because Bublé is or isn’t singing it. Better with him, but…”  
  
Emma shrugs and Killian genuinely isn’t sure whether to laugh or kiss her or possibly just shout that he’d very much like to spend the rest of his life scandalizing M&M store workers with Christmas knowledge for the rest of their lives. “Everything’s better with Bublé at Christmas, right?” Emma continues, and the worker nods slowly. “Anyway the answer is Deck the Halls.”

“That’s right,” the worker says. Her name is Aurora. It says so on the tag on her shirt.

“Yeah, I know.”

Killian ducks his head, moving it directly into Emma’s hair, which is either the greatest or worst idea he’s ever had, but he’s also having a difficult time staying upright while laughing so hard. Aurora looks even more stunned.

“Ok,” she says, more forced customer service voice as she leans back behind the register to grab a pre-filled bag of red and green M&Ms off the nearest shelf. “So, uh...congrats on your extensive holiday knowledge and opinions on Michael Bublé.”  
  
“Who doesn’t like Michael Bublé?” Emma counters. She takes the bag, a quiet noise because it’s obviously heavier than she expected. Killian is feeling more festive already. He didn’t know the answer to the trivia question. “Also, thanks. Do you guys sell hot chocolate? You know fancy hot chocolate? That could be easily passed off as hot chocolate made by Hershey?”  
  
“There’s a Hershey store on the other side of the--”  
  
“--We weren’t really big on waiting in the line,” Killian explains, Aurora’s eyebrows jumping when he joins the conversation.

“Ah, well, unfortunately no. Unless you’re looking for Dove chocolate hot chocolate.”  
  
Emma shakes her head. “M&M owns Dove chocolate too?”  
  
“Mars does. And, like, every gum brand you can think of. Although I’m pretty partial to Juicy Fruit. And Uncle Ben’s rice.”  
  
“Wow,” Emma muses, shifting the candy into the crook of her elbow. “That is...something huh? Corporate. That's the word I was looking for. It’s corporate.”  
  
Aurora looks incredibly confused. That’s fair. But Killian can hear the hint of _something_ on the edge of Emma’s voice, a flash of disappointment that does not belong in this day or this month or this holiday and at some point he really will stop pressing kisses to her temple.

Probably when his stomach unclenches.

“C’mon, love,” he says, letting go of her hand so he can wrap his arm around her shoulders instead. “I bet there’s super fancy hot chocolate in Bryant Park.”  
  
That’s the next stop on her list. She smiles.

And they end up giving the M&Ms to the door man at the Hershey store – some kind of _up yours_ to corporate America that probably doesn’t belong at Christmas either, but Phillip, his name is Phillip it says so on his name tag, mumbles something like _oh my God, thank you, I never have enough time to eat on my 15_ and promises not to brandish competitive merchandise. They tell him the bag was made by Aurora in the M&M store who really likes Juicy Fruit gum.

He beams at them.

It only takes a few minutes to get to Bryant Park, twisting their way between tourists and slow-moving cars in Times Square and both of them exhale sharply as soon as their feet land on the 6th Avenue. That, of course, only lasts as long as it takes to get across 6th Avenue and the sea of humanity waiting for them in Bryant Park is only a little intimidating.

“If I just keep mumbling damn under my breath all day is that going to get super annoying and repetitive?” Emma asks.

Killian shakes his head. “Depends on your voice inflection. Throw in some accents too. It’ll sound like a new word every single time.”  
  
“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”  
  
“Did you not hear yourself say you wanted to go ice skating before?”

“Maybe we’re both secretly fantastic ice skaters and we’re just missing our potential. This is our moment. Carpe diem or whatever.”  
  
“You know usually people leave off the whatever part of carpe diem and I think the whole phrase really suffers because of it. Not nearly as inspiring.”

Emma scoffs, but there’s still a smile on her face and she pulls herself closer to him when he moves his eyebrows. “You think you’re very charming don’t you?”  
  
“Only around you.”  
  
It’s not actually an admission, but it kind of feels like one and Killian digs his teeth into the side of his tongue. To stay grounded. Or whatever. Emma, however, doesn’t seem troubled, just presses up on her toes and rests a freezing cold hand against his cheek.

“I’ll take it,” she says. “C’mon. We’ve got to rent skates.”

Skating, it turns out, is much more difficult than Killian expected to be. The rink itself isn’t particularly crowded, but ice, by its very nature, is particularly slippery and neither he nor Emma seem capable of finding their stride.

He hopes that isn’t a sign.

“Oh my God, no, you’re going too quickly,” Emma says, breathless and a little flushed. That may be a sign.

“Swan, we literally cannot be going any slower. We’re not even moving.”  
  
“Too quick.”  
  
Killian chuckles, but the sound turns into a groan when Emma’s skate skids underneath her, sending her crashing into his chest. “Oh shit, this was a mistake,” she moans. “Whose idea was this? This is not festive at all.”  
  
“Your idea, love.”  
  
“Idiot.”  
  
He’s back to laughing and the security guard with perfect skating form, who probably makes a bit more than either Phillip or Aurora, keeps glancing at them. Because they aren’t moving. And haven’t in some time.

“That’s incredibly untrue,” Killian says, leaning back slightly. It’s a mistake – they both shake and wobble, baited breath and wide eyes with only the fear of becoming some viral sensation keeping them upright.

There are a lot of phone in Bryant Park. And Christmas music. He’s fairly positive this same song has been playing on a loop for the last thirty-three and a half minutes.

“You’re an adrenaline junkie, aren’t you?” Killian presses, and the ice under him suddenly feels thinner. Metaphorically. Emma’s eyes flash, a warning there. He ignores it. “C’mon Jones, you’ll love it. It’s a famous roller coaster. On the _Travel Channel_ all the time. Everyone has to go on it once in their life. Just ignore the negative effects the g-forces will have on your internal organs.”  
  
Emma’s nose twitches. “I never said that part. And if that was supposed to sound like my voice, it was absolutely atrocious.”  
  
“Eh, I’m working on the fly here,” Killian grins.

“Well the least you could do is quote me correctly. Don’t you actually remember what I said?”  
  
“Perfectly.” He doesn’t shout the word, although the security guard definitely looks up like he did. That may be because it’s the truest truth Killian has ever spoken. “You said you didn’t want to ride with some stranger if I wimped out. Mary Margaret and David were probably already making out in line.”  
  
“They totally were.”  
  
“Interrupting,” Killian mumbles, Emma sticking her tongue out in response. “Anyway, they were off being disgusting and you said I had to ride and--” He has to take a deep breath, the ice feeling like it’s melting a bit under him, but that may just be because Emma's fingers are warm when they lace through his.

“I told you that if you freaked, you could just hold onto me,” Emma finishes. “Because I wasn’t going anywhere and you made a joke about Isaac Newton.”  
  
That was timely.”  
  
“Yuh huh. Ok, we can go slightly faster on the ice if you absolutely do not let go.”

Killian nods, tugging Emma’s hand up to brush his lips over her knuckles. “One foot in front of the other.”

They push off.

And for, at least, sixteen full seconds Killian is certain this is going to work. They’re gliding and haven’t sustained any lasting injuries and Emma’s hand feels impossibly wonderful in his. It’s good. Great, even. Festive, for sure.

That is, of course, until an alarm blares somewhere and the kid pushing a wooden sled thing shaped like a tree to help him keep his balance totally loses his balance.

Emma yelps, Killian growling a wholly inappropriate curse with a now-crying kid in such close proximity. It’s less good then. Because then they’re a mess of limbs and Emma’s hair in his face and ice is incredibly painful when they’re both landing on top of it with a distinct lack of grace.

Neither one of them lets go of the other’s hand.

“Those g-forces were more aggressive than I expected,” Killian mutters once he gets some oxygen back into his lungs and a bit of feeling back into his right leg. The words are mostly pressed into Emma’s cheek though, half her body still draped over his and the laugh that flies out of her is questionably loud.

“That’s not even funny.”  
  
“You’re laughing!”  
  
“No, this is not laughter--” Emma’s body shakes when she cuts herself off, twisting in a way that is entirely unfair when they are still so decidedly in public, and Killian isn’t entirely prepared for the look on her face. It makes his heart thud erratically in his chest and his vision swims slightly, but that may just be because of the distinct lack of blood flow he’s getting to several different limbs at this point.

“Thank you,” Emma finishes. He doesn’t expect that.

“What?”  
  
“Thank you. For...well, for going along with this festive nonsense and I know Scarlet was pissed you weren’t going to be there later--”  
  
“--He can deal with it. It’s probably one of the last Saturdays he’ll have to be behind the bar anyway, so you know, relatively speaking.”  
  
“I really don’t think that’s true.”  
  
Killian arches an eyebrow. “No?”  
  
“No,” Emma says, and there’s no way to doubt the certainty in her voice. The same certainty that knew he’d enjoy the goddamn roller coaster and that they should definitely go on the roller coaster three more times while David and Mary Margaret did something disgustingly romantic on the other side of the park.

That may be the biggest sign of them all.

Killian wonders if that’s what they actually tripped over.

“No,” Emma says again, fingers drifting back to his chest and the zipper hanging underneath his scarf. He’s definitely not counting the number of times her fingers drift. Only a crazy person would do that. “This is--Christmas is supposed to be good, right?”  
  
“I’m fairly certain those are the rules, yes.”  
  
“Then this is going to be good and fine and--”  
  
“--Festive.”

She beams. And for another few seconds, not quite sixteen because nothing can ever be normal or consistent, Killian is positive he’s going to duck his head and kiss her. Right there on the goddamn ice in Bryant Park. He’s half an inch away from doing it, the glint in her eyes doing something specific to his cognizant reasoning and ability to breathe and Emma’s fingers are still toying with metal and fabric and, if put under oath and asked, he would guarantee she tilts her head up.

Towards him.

“Yeah,” she breathes. “Exactly that. That’s--”  
  
“--I’m going to have to ask both of you to get off the ice.”

Emma’s eyes flutter shut, head dropping onto Killian’s shoulder and he’s probably going to limp for the rest of the afternoon. That may make the rest of the schedule difficult. Plus the whole kissing thing.

He ignores that part.

The security guards stares at them expectantly when neither one of them makes a move to stand up. “Now,” he says. “Unless you’d like to do some single-hand combat with the zamboni.”

Emma’s body shakes again and Killian isn’t sure what noise he makes, but it doesn’t sound human and kind of hurts his throat on the way out. “That’s definitely a new angle for the Greatest Story Ever Told,” he mumbles, nudging Emma up and they both slip and slide and glare at the security guard in equal measure.

The zamboni does not appear to be moving.

“Who does that make us, exactly?” she asks, arms flailing slightly to keep her balance. They could not be farther away from the opening in the boards. “Different variations of the Little Drummer Boy?”  
  
“Well you do know all the words to every Christmas song ever written, Swan.”  
  
He does it, only partially, to get that very specific flush on her face – but that partial amount may honestly be, like, ninety-seven and half percent and Killian barely hears the security guard clear his throat. “Not all of them,” Emma grumbles. “Just, you know. Some of them. A normal amount. People know these things. Maybe you’re the weird one.”  
  
“Yuh huh.”  
  
She sticks her tongue out again, glancing at the security guard. “In that one song. The guy from Tennessee. Do you know where he was heading?"   
  
“Pennsylvania and some homemade pumpkin pie,” the security guard responds. He doesn’t smile, not entirely, but his lips quirk just a bit and the zamboni is still on the other side of the ice. “That’s basic Christmas song knowledge, ma’am.”

Emma makes a sound that will probably echo in between Killian’s ears until New Year’s and possibly the rest of his life – joyful and festive and he hopes the smile on her face imprints itself on his brain because he can’t imagine a world where he doesn’t remember every single bit of that very particular smile.

Probably to continue to pine for his roommate.

And her knowledge of Christmas song lyrics. But mostly her. Just. In general.

“That’s what I’m saying,” Emma continues, working her way against Killian’s side as the security guard does his very best to usher them off the ice and away from the slowest-moving zamboni in the history of the world. “Thank you for proving my point. You’ve done a very good Christmas thing here.”

“It’s been my pleasure ma’am, but if we’re finished discussing slightly nostalgic holiday feelings, then I’m really going to have to ask you and your boyfriend to get off the ice.  
  
Killian’s eyes fall out of his head. Or, at least, they feel like they do. He imagines there’d be more yelling from the ever-growing crowd on the right side of the boards if they had.

As such, there’s no yelling, just a distinct lack of contradiction from either him or Emma and it’s not the first time someone has made that mistake. In fact, it’s a mistake that has become so common that it’s almost expected and his pulse nearly stays at a normal, human level when someone utters those words in that very specific order.

Almost.

So they don’t say anything, no correction or objection, just slightly awkward skating technique and quiet _happy holidays_ under their breath when they avoid fighting the zamboni. And Emma’s still smiling when they hand their skates back, head tilted up towards Killian because it’s still early and there’s still plenty of city and--

“You want to get some food?”

She nods. “I thought you’d never ask.”

They don’t go in every store in the holiday market, but it’s pretty close, testing as many overpriced food in the name of festivity as they can. There’s a fairly serious debate over the Belgian fries and which sauces they should get and whether or not the cookies that they buy from the booth four away from Max Brenners are better than Ruth’s.

“I’m going to tell her you even considered this for one single, solitary second and she’s going to kick you out of the house,” Emma warns, Killian already shaking his head.

“Nope. She likes me way too much. I am Ruth’s favorite kid.”  
  
“You are not her kid.”  
  
“Tell that to Ruth.”  
  
“God, it’s so stupid when you’re right. You do this whole thing with your face and it’s--” She waves a frustrated hand a few inches away from his nose, yelping when he nips at her fingertips. “It’s genuinely the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen.”  
  
“We should have ordered garlic aioli for the fires.”  
  
“Ah, damn that sounds good.”  
  
“At some point you’re going to realize I know absolutely everything, love,” Killian laughs, slinging an arm around her shoulders to direct her back to the fries booth. The garlic aioli is worth it.

Although it doesn’t entirely go with the eggnog-flavored coffee.

“We should have waited,” Emma says, wandering up Fifth Avenue and the crowds around them only seem to be growing. “You know, like swimming.”  
  
Killian scoffs. “Wait thirty minutes post aioli to drink a festive beverage?”  
  
“I mean, that sounds kind of fancy, but something along those lines, yeah. Is it just me or is it getting even more crowded?”  
  
“It’s Saturday.”  
  
“You say that like it’s a reason.”  
  
“Is it not?” he asks, weaving his way through a very obvious tour group and his toes are going to be bruised from the beating they are currently taking. “This is really ruining my perception of eggnog completely, love. I think we’re going to have to chalk this up as a mistake and try again later.”  
  
“We’re going to spend a small fortune on food and beverage.”  
  
“Ah, well, what better way to declare bankruptcy?”  
  
“That’s the spirit, for sure.” He chuckles, tossing the cup out and reaching behind him for Emma. Something about the crowd and people’s inability to walk across the street in a timely fashion. “Are you worried I’m going to get lost?”  
  
Killian glances over his shoulder to find her smiling at her, a few flecks of what may be more snow because it’s starting to get cold again in her hair. He nods slowly. Or quickly. He’s not entirely sure. Everything seems to have lost its meaning outside of the moment and them and they’re the ones causing pedestrian issues now.

A horn honks at them when the light turns.

“Oh shit,” Killian breathes, tugging Emma against him with far more force than necessary and he hadn’t realized they were so close to Rockefeller Center already. “Do they realize it’s just a tree?”  
  
“Do we realize it’s just a tree?”  
  
“This is a very good question.”  
  
Emma laughs, twisting around him until she’s the one doing the tugging and it isn’t really all that hard to get closer. That’s probably another sign. They’re practically slamming into Killian at this point. That may bruise too.

“Well,” Emma says, dragging the word out. “It certainly is a tree, isn’t it?”

“With lights.”  
  
“And support wires.”  
  
“It’s a big tree. There are physics involved.”

Her nose does that thing again. It’s distracting. “Oh yeah? Tell me more about physics, please.”  
  
“Isaac Newton.”  
  
“What about him?”  
  
“Knew about physics,” Killian shrugs. “Right?”  
  
“You having to double check on that leads me to believe he probably didn’t.”  
  
“No, no, objects and motion and, you know, intrinsic force or something.”  
  
“You made that last one up,” Emma accuses, although it loses a bit of its bite when the smile on her face would probably rival the goddamn tree at night. When it’s lit up. It’s really more impressive then.

They seem to have messed up their Christmas tree timing.

_God_.

“Alright, here, I will prove it to you,” Killian says. It takes some finagling to get his phone out of his pocket, wincing when his shoulder makes a noise it absolutely shouldn’t and that only gets another laugh out of Emma. And he’s just about to google something, but this whole day has been absolutely absurd and maybe they’re wearing signs that suggest strangers should keep approaching them.

“Would you like me to take your picture?”

The woman in front of them is holding an I Love NY plastic bag. She’s probably from, like...Indiana or something.

“Oh no, no, that’s ok,” Emma promises, rushing over the words so quickly it’s impossible for them to sound anything except disingenuous and people from Indiana are, apparently, very confident.

The woman reaches out to grab Killian’s phone, promising _it’s fine, I don’t mind at all_ and there’s something about her family waiting on line to get into FAO Schwartz too. Killian barely hears any of it, Emma’s arm finding its way around his middle and--

“Smile!”

They do. And Mrs. Indiana takes no less than twenty-seven pictures.  
  
“I’m sure I got a good one,” she says, handing Killian back his phone with a genuineness that the world could probably use more of.

He nods. “Thanks. C’mon, love, let’s see if we can guess the themes of some of these windows.”

They get stumped by Cavalli. And the robot theme at Tiffany’s. Although they do go into Tiffany’s which is a little unexpected and kind of nice, particularly when Emma’s breath catches just a bit at several different and decidedly sparkly things.

“I just don’t understand what robots have to do with jewelry,” she says, hours later and tucked into a dimly-lit bar on the Upper West Side that Yelp! promised had very good holiday drinks.

The eggnog tastes better without the lingering bit of aioli. And probably the rum too.

“It’s clearly above our pay grade, Swan.”  
  
“Someone had to approve that. Multiple someone’s!”  
  
“I’d imagine it was an entire committee,” Killian says. “Ads and sales and marketing. There were probably several graphs made.”  
  
“Power points too?”  
  
“Undoubtedly.”  
  
She laughs over the top of her own drink – something named after some dead poet because that’s this bar’s schtick and the whipped cream on top is threatening to brush against the tip of her nose. Maybe they should get some kind of schtick for their bar too.

Then maybe they can keep it.

“This sounds very in depth.”  
  
“Corporate America at its finest,” Killian mutters, a hint of bitterness that does not belong in a bar so clearly obsessed with death and Christmas. Emma blinks. “Sorry, sorry,” he continues. “That wasn’t--you know, one of the first memories I’ve got is walking up Fifth Ave with Liam and questioning every single window display. I was very impressed by Saks.”  
  
“Well they do that whole light thing on the side of the building. What kid wouldn’t love that?”  
  
He smiles. And takes a far-too-large drink. “That’s a good point.”  
  
“I didn’t know you and Liam used to do this,” Emma says, voice dropping slightly because it’s kind of depressing and he’s kind of depressing and he refuses to look at his phone. So he’s kind of immature too.

“That’s not your fault, Swan.”

“I’m not saying it is. I’m just…” She exhales, ruffling her own hair in the process and it may be the single most endearing thing he’s ever seen. “I wasn’t lying before. You can tell me stuff and things and whatever you want and I know talking about Liam is--”

The single most difficult thing in the world. She doesn’t actually say that, but she doesn’t have to and Killian keeps wondering what he’d say about a developer and him and he would have liked Emma so much.

God, he likes Emma so much.

He loves her a lot.

It’s getting more difficult not to tell her that.

“You know that was the first time I thought I could really actually decide to like you,” Emma says, an abrupt subject change that makes Killian wonder if he’s more drunk than he thought.

“What?”  
  
“I didn’t want you to come on that trip. To the amusement park, I mean. Elsa was supposed to come, but then stuff happened and she couldn’t and David suggested you and I was, God, I was so mad.”  
  
“If this is supposed to be a compliment, I’m afraid you’re missing the mark, Swan.”  
  
“No, no, I know I am, but...David said he’d asked you and then you were there and I knew we were going to have to ride everything together. I was so pissed about it. Ask Mary Margaret when we go home.”  
  
His heart may explode at that particular word. So he takes another drink. “Don’t think I won’t.”  
  
“I am counting on it. Because I was so mad, but then you were--” Emma shrugs, downing the rest of her drink and slamming it back on the table like she’s proving a point. “The roller coaster clicked on the chain and you grabbed my hand like death was imminent and it was…”

She sighs again. He’s not counting. He’s totally counting. What a creep.

“I don’t know,” Emma shrugs. “Human.”  
  
“Did you think I wasn’t?”  
  
“I’d considered alien cyborg for awhile, if I’m being totally honest.”  
  
“Brutally it seems.”  
  
Emma laughs, twisting her hair around her fingers. A tell. That he noticed a few minutes before they got on the roller coaster.

It feels like they’re about to get on again. Or, maybe, they’ve just never got off.

“This is a good story, I promise,” she says. “I just...we had fun that afternoon, right?” Killian nods. He needs more to drink. “And we’ve never really stopped and I just--it was like something clicked and I thought maybe we could get along and I wouldn’t be some horrible third wheel for Mary Margaret and David for the rest of my life and, well--” Another deep breath. He feels a bit like he’s suffocating. “I wouldn’t have wanted to reclaim my festivity with anyone else.”

It’s not romantic. Not really. It may even be decidedly unromantic.

Killian’s brain doesn’t care – because his brain is on overdrive and his heart is threatening to explode out his chest and he’s standing before he realizes he’s decided, pulling Emma off the stool in the corner and they nearly fall over five different times on their way back to the sidewalk.

“What are we doing?” Emma asks, a note of _something_ in her voice when he hails a cab.

He doesn’t answer. At least not here. “Macy’s,” he says instead, nodding towards the driver and if this is all going to end, if he’s going to lose his bar and his livelihood and his festive spirit, then he’ll be damned if he does get some photographic evidence of how absolutely happy he is right now. In this moment. Without a tourist from Indiana ruining it.

None of the pictures she took were very clear.

Emma doesn’t ask any questions the entire drive downtown, but her eyes keep darting towards Killian and his clearly impatient left foot. He keeps tapping it. And they can’t actually get in front of the store – promising the driver _two blocks away is fine_ , although he’s also a little worried about timing and store hours and they don’t quite run from 36th Street.

They jog. Briskly.

“It can’t possibly be good for me to be this out of breath, can it?” Emma asks, pressed against his side just a few feet past the doors.

“You’d still get your guy, Swan.”  
  
“And in this case is the guy Santa?”  
  
“You know, I bet if we combined our mind reading abilities in Times Square, we’d make an absolute fortune every day.”  
  
She hums, glancing around like whatever department they’ve stumbled into will have directions to Santa. “Where do you think he’s hiding the North Pole?”

“Only one way to find out, right?”  
  
Emma nods.

There’s more jogging and weaving through workers offering perfume samples and they’re definitely _deep_ in Macy’s when the escalators start looking older. “Do you think they’re required to keep these?” Killian asks, glancing down at the rickety thing under them. “Like for history?”  
  
“New York City does love its history,” Emma says, and if he weren’t so determined to get their picture taken with goddamn Santa Claus he probably would have noticed the way her voice stuttered slightly over the words.

As it is, he’s far too busy gaping at the scene as soon as they step onto the eighth floor. There are snowflakes everywhere – hanging from the ceiling and displays, music pumping through what sounds like a dozen speakers and more than few workers dressed as elves. He hopes they make more than minimum wage.

Some joke about Bob Cratchit or something.

“Do you have an appointment?”

Killian stops dead in his tracks. Emma makes the world’s single most ridiculous noise. “What?” she balks. “An appointment to...see Santa? Are you serious?”

The elf nods. It’s nice to see nothing about this day has made any sense. “It’s uh...a new North Pole tradition this year!”

“Written by the North Pole PR department,” Emma grumbles. The elf nods again. “So there’s like...no chance of getting to see Santa without an appointment? Seriously, why is that a thing?”

The elf glances around – like she’s worried about being overheard and Killian has to press his face into Emma’s hair to stop from dissolving into hysterics. That’s totally why. “It’s crowd control,” she whispers. “You know we had families waiting hours and screaming and crying kids. So many crying kids. But then they’d get inside and they’d get stuck and--”

“--Stuck in the North Pole?”  
  
“There’s a pretty extensive display back there,” the elf explains, Emma humming in understanding. “But you’re kind of locked in. This is, you know, better. A little colder, but better.”  
  
“Practical,” Killian says.

“Yeah, exactly that.” The elf looks around again, mouth twisting when it appears she comes to some kind of decision. Her eyes narrow slightly, gaze turning appraising and maybe a bit wistful and Killian can’t understand that part, but then Emma squeezes his hand slightly. He hadn’t realized she was holding his hand. “Tell them that you had an appointment for 10:15,” she whispers, leaning over the podium so her hat almost falls off her head. “They’ll let you right in.”  
  
Killian blinks. And blinks again. The elf smiles. And Emma squeezes his hand. “C’mon, Jones,” she mutters. “We won’t get what we want for Christmas if we don’t go see Santa.”

The elf yells something as they walk by – barely audible over the _classic_ Christmas carols all but blasting through the North Pole, but it sounds a hell of a lot like _that’s really romantic_ and Killian wonders if anyone’s just gone into complete cardiac arrest in the North Pole.

Probably not.

And there’s not really a line because it’s almost 10:15 on a Saturday in New York and meeting Santa probably isn’t on anyone else’s must-do list, but they still have to wait outside a door and--

“Why Santa?” Emma asks, eyes still bright when she glances at him.

“Wasn’t on your list.”  
  
“Yuh huh.”  
  
Killian shrugs. “What’s the most ridiculous, cliché Christmas thing you can think of?”  
  
“Sending Christmas cards.”  
  
“Exactly,” he says, nodding in thanks when a different elf directs them towards a different themed room and Santa smiles at them as soon as they walk. “And,” Killian whispers against Emma’s hair, “you need pictures for that.”

She doesn’t quite gasp, but it may actually make her breath hitch and that very enjoyable flush is back on her cheeks. Santa is asking them questions, _another_ elf directing them towards their designated seats on either side of him, but so much of Killian is tied up with Emma that disentangling that seems like a feat impossible.

So he does the only thing that absolutely, positively does not make sense. He pulls her onto his legs and wraps his arm around her waist and they banter with Santa Claus.

“I just want something good,” Emma answers when asked what she wants, and Killian doesn’t think before he drops a kiss to her shoulder blade.

Santa may wink. “I’ll see what I can do. And what about you, my boy?”  
  
Killian startles, Emma’s laughter ringing in his ears. She moved her own around his shoulder at some point. “What she said,” he mutters. “Something...something good.”  
  
Santa definitely winks.

And they make ridiculous faces at the camera – smiles and laughter and more tangled limbs that may represent something more because Emma Swan is so much a part of his life that Killian can’t imagine a life that is any different. He doesn’t want to. Not at Christmas.

Or ever.

He pays for the biggest photo package they have. It comes with keychains. And mobile downloads. And, several hours later, after copping some of his own alcohol stock from his own bar, with Emma curled up asleep against him on the couch, he changes his phone’s lock screen – an unposed photo that was probably against the rules to take and even more against the rules to use, but she’s smiling and he’s got his lips pressed against the back of her jacket.

He doesn’t realize she picked the same photo while he was behind the bar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you've all gotten to drink some eggnog. Come flail on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/) if you're down.


	3. Chapter 3

“I think this is actually cutting off the circulation to my brain.”  
  
Emma’s eyes flit towards Killian, a smile tugging at the end of her mouth and he can’t do much more than shrug in response. He doesn’t entirely trust himself to do more than shrug anyway, far too aware of how often she’s been camped out at the end of his bar in the last few days and they’d sent Christmas cards.

The whole thing had only been slightly less ridiculous than crashing the fake North Pole in Herald Square – finding some kind of knockoff layout website on Sunday while the Giants continued to, according to several regulars at the bar, _play the worst football in the history of the world_ , and nearly everyone had an opinion on how the photos should be organized. Leroy thought the one of them laughing at something Santa said should have gone in the middle, but Emma really liked the one where they were walking into the North Pole and Killian honestly could not believe that the Macy’s elves took so many photos.

That seemed like above and beyond the call of elf duty. He wasn’t sure if that was a real thing or not. And he was even less sure if the lack of elf duties regarding picture taking and appointment-less meetings with Santa Claus were a good thing or not.

It didn’t matter. Killian had a Christmas card to design and Emma kept smiling, hand brushing over his arm every few minutes that afternoon. He wasn’t counting.

He was totally counting.

And they picked half a dozen pictures, put them all in some pre-designed design that was one of the few free ones available on whatever the name of the site was and the Giants scored their lone touchdown of the game when Emma hit save.

That probably didn’t mean anything. And neither did the little flip Killian’s stomach made when he noticed that Emma had picked a very specific Christmas card saying for their joint Christmas card –  _from our family to yours, a very Merry Christmas._

It was fine. They sent the cards the next day.

As a collective unit.

Of roommate friendship.

God. Those are terrible words in that very specific order. He’s really trying very hard to maintain his festive nature, but it’s been almost a week and a half since their trip into the city and the Christmas card that’s now hanging behind the bar appears to exist only to taunt Killian and what he very obviously does not have and Will is wearing reindeer antlers.

“Honestly,” he continues, sliding a pair of shot glasses towards a man who, very possibly, is wearing the world’s ugliest ugly Christmas sweater. “There is no way that these can be one size fits all.”  
  
“I don’t know what to tell you,” Emma says. She’s got one leg tugged up onto the tiny bit of stool she isn’t sitting on, her chin resting on her knee and a pile of papers stacked next to the laptop that’s playing some kind of Christmas something. “The bag said one size fits all. I don’t know why the bag would lie to me about it. Or any of us for that matter.”  
  
“Unless the bag is actually operating under some nefarious purpose. Like...some Christmas villain.”  
  
“What kind of villains are there at Christmas?”  
  
Will makes a dismissive noise in the back of his throat. “The ones that are pinching my brain in half right now, obviously.”  
  
“A lovely image,” Killian mutters, grabbing another glass and pointedly ignoring whatever his phone is doing in his back pocket.

“You going to answer that?” Emma asks.

“Nope.”  
  
“Is that a good idea?”  
  
“Nope.”

Her laugh seems to fly out of her, far louder than he expected and somehow even better because it also comes with a smile a very specific glint in her eyes. Whatever she’s watching on her laptop appears to have reached its dramatic conclusion. The music is swelling.

“What did the coffee people say?”  
  
Killian groans, running a hand through his hair and yanking on a few strands with a bit more force than necessary. Emma doesn’t blink. The music is definitely getting louder. And whatever the people are saying does not sound like it’s English.

“What are you watching?” he asks, a deflection so obvious he’s almost insulted himself. Will makes another noise.

“Try again,” Emma says.

“I’m serious. Is that even English?”  
  
She shakes her head. “It is not, but there are subtitles and it’s really more about the feelings and--”  
  
“--It’s a epically Christmas show,” Will finishes.

Killian has not had enough sleep for this conversation. He’s barely coping with the reindeer antlers and the assumption that Emma bought Will reindeer antlers at some point, which also means that Emma and Will are having separate conversations without him at some point, and the coffee place up the street wanted to talk. About selling. Or, rather not selling.

He might have his own headache – even without the reindeer antlers. Because the flush of hope Killian can feel in the pit of his stomach seems more like a tease than anything else and while the coffee people have apparently had some kind of sudden change of heart, he’s still got no idea what to do to stop Robert Gold from figuring out a way to kick them all out.

At Christmas.

God bless us, everyone.

“What exactly is epically Christmas?” Killian asks. “And seriously, what language is that?”  
  
“Dutch,” Emma answers, not taking her eyes away from the laptop screen. “Oh God, Scarlet, look, I think they’ve got someone in that box thing.”  
  
Killian waves his hands when Will all but sprints around the side of the bar, skidding to a stop next to Emma and slinging an arm around her shoulders. She lets her head drop back against his chest, hair everywhere and the ends of her lips still ticked up.

“Aw, look, they’re rolling the box into...where are they?”

“The airport,” Emma says, and Killian is fairly certain he doesn’t imagine the way her voice catches just a bit. Or the suddenly glossy tint to her gaze.

She bites her lip.

“Ah, they’re always at the airport,” Will mumbles. “You’d think they’d come up with something more original for some of these things.”  
  
“It’s nice!”  
  
“I’m not questioning that. I'm just saying, you know, airport love declarations are kind of cliché.”  
  
“You’re a picture of romance and feeling, you know that? But do they always attack kiss each other like that? I don’t anyone would kiss another person like that in real life.”  
  
“Who told you about this show?” Will counters, Emma clicking her tongue in what may be slightly festive frustration. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Oh, wait, wait, they’re telling them that they’ve won the prize and they get to open up the box.”  
  
Killian blinks. And then blinks, exactly, thirteen more times to make sure that he’s not hallucinating. It’s entirely possible. He had a lot of espresso at the coffee place.

“What the hell are either of you talking about?” he demands, only to be immediately waved off by a two-person chorus of _ohhs_ and _awws_ and Emma does an absolutely pitiful job of making it look like she’s not crying. “Oh my God, what is happening right now?”  
  
Will glares at him. “I thought you were reclaiming your festive cheer?”  
  
“I’m festive!”  
  
“Could have fooled me. How hard is that rock-hard heart of yours that this isn’t tugging at some metaphorical strings?”  
  
“Did you think that those words made sense in that order?” Killian asks, nodding towards another customer with more drink orders and at least they’ve been making money while trying to fight off cooperate America.

“Scrooge. Grinch. Ghost of Christmas Future.”  
  
“Wa that last one an actual insult?” Emma asks, sniffling slightly and dabbing the end of a napkin at the corner of her eye.

“Yes,” Will nods. “The Ghost of Christmas Future is a creep and, like, you know the crypt keeper or whatever.”  
  
“The phrase you were looking for is grim reaper,” Killian corrects. He hands the last customer another drink, stuffing a few bills into his back pocket with his no-longer ringing phone and there are people rather enthusiastically kissing on Emma’s laptop screen.

The music budget for this show must be astronomical.

“Honestly,” he continues. “What is this? God, they are enthusiastic aren’t they?”  
  
“C’mon, it’s nice,” Emma mumbles. She has to shift on the stool to move closer to him, which is another thing that Killian absolutely, positively is not paying attention to. He’s getting worse at lying to himself, he’s positive. And she doesn’t object when he wraps his arm around her, hooking his chin over the curve of her shoulder until his face is half tucked against her neck and the people on the screen are still kissing.

“I assume they’re the ones being reunited.”  
  
“You’re a genius,” Will laughs. “This is an incredibly fantastic Dutch show that my mom used to watch when I was a kid. It’s called A _ll You Need is Love_ and I don’t want to hear any smart remarks about that.”  
  
“Would I do that?” Killian asks.

“Yes, your face is doing it currently. But if you guys get to blow off a Saturday here to reclaim your cheer, then I get to do this. So my mom used to watch it and it’s basically how I learned parts of the language and--”  
  
“--You can speak Dutch?” Emma interrupts, a note of genuine interest in her voice that happens fairly often because Killian knows she’s the single most curious person on the planet. She constantly wants to know everything about everything and everyone and Will squeezes one eye closed when he blushes.

It’s a Christmas miracle.

“Some,” Will says, the hint of color working its way up his cheeks. “That’s not the important part. The important part is that it is a heartwarming show that reunites loved ones and people who should be together in admittedly cliché fashion and at the airport more often than probably necessary, but it’s--”

“--So sugary sweet, it’ll rot your teeth,” Emma grins.

Killian quirks an eyebrow. “Is that a compliment?”  
  
“Oh, yeah, absolutely. And this is definitely, like, the fifteenth airport reunion we’ve seen so far.”  
  
“How many of these episodes have you been watching?”  
  
Will clicks his teeth, glancing towards the ceiling like he’s trying to do a particularly difficult equation in his head. Killian waits for the steam to start pouring out of his ears – and he didn’t notice the plate of freshly-baked cookies sitting on the other side of the bar until just now.

There’s a sign in front of them, Emma’s handwriting obvious.

_Take what you want and enjoy!_

The people on the laptop have finally stopped kissing. They’re hugging instead, a mess of limbs and obvious emotions even through the language barrier, while a rather impressive camera crew does its best to get their immediate reactions.

“More people should be aware of this show,” Will explains, as if that’s an explanation at all. Emma sniffles again. “It’s delightful.”  
  
“That may be the first time you’ve ever used the phrase delightful in your life.”

“Impossible. I’m delightful, so--”  
  
“--Yeah, you're certainly something.”  
  
Will narrows his eyes. “You’re ruining my holiday vibe.”  
  
“That may just be the antlers,” Emma murmurs, drawing a laugh out of Killian. Her fingers are still moving. He’s still definitely not keeping track of that. Or timing it in his head. He wonders why the people on the laptop screen had to be reunited.

“Ah, that may be partially true, actually,” Will admits. “But it’s mostly Jones and his face and, well, to answer the question, while you were off trying to save our livelihood, Em and I have been working our way through the entire history of the show.”  
  
“Ambitious,” Killian chuckles, the word pressed mostly into Emma’s skin. There are goosebumps there. And at some point, she’s started tracing patterns on his forearm.

He doesn’t think she realizes she’s doing it.

“We’ve had some time,” Emma reasons. “And it really will help the state of your heart. Although I don’t know if having your heart expand is actually very good for it.”  
  
“The Grinch didn’t seem to mind.”  
  
“The Grinch wasn’t human. And I’d imagine he was getting more than a few minutes of sleep every night.”  
  
“It’s definitely more than a few minutes,” Killian argues, but it feels kind of pointless because no one knows his sleeping habits better than Emma and she woke up that morning to find him in the corner of the couch watching the anchor on NY1 read him the newspaper headlines.

She made coffee.

He’s had so much coffee in the last twelve hours. That probably isn’t good for his heart either. Or, like, the general and consistent amount of pining he does for his roommate. That he sent Christmas cards with.

It kind of feels like he’s also wearing inappropriately-sized reindeer antlers.

“Tell that to the bags under your eyes,” Will challenges. “You know what? New rule. We are not allowed to talk about our imminent demise until you guys get back from your picturesque Christmas trip.”

“Are we calling it a demise?” Emma asks. “Because that may be ruining my Christmas vibe, honestly.”  
  
She tilts her head up, gaze steady when it meets Killian’s. He has to swallow, whatever is suddenly sitting in the back of his throat making it rather difficult to breathe or do anything except telling her how much the last few weeks with her have meant to him while everything seems to be falling apart around him and what she means to him, no matter what the time constraints, and they’re absolutely going to bake cookies before they drive to Storybrooke the next morning.

Killian shakes his head. “Demise is decidedly unfestive, don’t you think?”  
  
“I mean, if that’s--”  
  
“It’s fine, love.”  
  
Will doesn’t exactly jerk back at the endearment that’s less that and more habit at this point, but his jaw clenches slightly and his eyes widen just a bit and Killian is fairly certain several people in that bar immediately glance at the Christmas card hanging behind the bar.

It’s taunting him. He’s positive.

“What did the coffee people say?” Emma presses, waving her hand towards Will. He grins when he realizes she wants something to drink.

“Mostly that they don’t know what they’re going to do even if they do sell,” Killian says. “And that while Robert fill in the blank element here has made some really appealing offers and--”  
  
“--Threats,” Will cuts in, making a face when Killian glares at him. “Shots or…”  
  
“Cinnamon schnapps,” Emma says with authority. Will makes the face again. “Aw, that’s festive!”  
  
“That is disgusting. Jones, back me up on this.”  
  
“He’s got a point, love,” Killian says, and he needs to stop. He needs to pack for Storybrooke. He needs to get more than a few minutes of sleep every night. “When is the last time you’ve had schnapps?”

“I genuinely don’t know. Probably some time I don’t remember in college.”  
  
“And we’re not taking that as a sign?” Will mumbles, the question barely audible from where he’s crouched on the ground. “Do we even have cinnamon schnapps? God, is that a sign of our lack of bar-dom?”  
  
“Is that a word?” Killian counters, Emma’s hair brushing against his chin when she shakes her head.

Will grumble a few curses under his breath when he doesn’t stand back up immediately, complaining about the strain the search is putting on his calves. There are different people on the TV show now – moving out of the airport and back into the studio, all of them wearing sweaters that were probably hand-knit because Killian assumes everyone of Dutch heritage knows how to knit.

That may be a stereotype too.

Something crashes behind the bar.

“Ok, the schnapps quest did not require bodily harm,” Emma calls, leaning over the bar until Killian’s arm tightens on instinct. Or whatever. So she doesn’t fall of the stool.

_Whatever_.

Will waves his hand over his head, a few more muttered curses that may not actually be in English. “I really don’t think we have cinnamon anything.”  
  
“There is Fireball back there, one-hundred thousand percent,” Killian objects. “We got that order a couple days ago.”  
  
“Are we still getting alcohol orders? Look who’s being ambitious now.”  
  
Emma sighs, shoulders slumping in what looks like complete defeat and Killian kisses her hair. Several times. Will is still on the floor. And that’s absolutely not the reason. “It’s fine, Swan,” he says, a promise he absolutely can’t make.

And he knows she hasn’t been sleeping very well either, sounds of an exceptionally creaky mattress on the other side of the wall they inexplicably share. Probably to torture him some more. He’s going to buy her sixteen boxes of cinnamon-flavored alcohol.

“It has been busy,” she says. “And if the coffee people are having a change of heart, then maybe the pita people will--”  
  
“--Hey,” Will snaps, all but jumping back up with a half-filled bottle clutched in his hand. “What did we decide? No more talk about any of this until after you guys head up to the great white north and do all your disgusting traditions.”  
  
“Christmas?” Killian asks. Will shrugs.

“Yes, Christmas. I couldn’t find cinnamon anything, even the Fireball you claim we have, which I don’t think should count anyway, so--”  
  
“--What are you holding?”  
  
“Jeez, you are impatient.” Will thrusts his hand forward, Emma flinching back and Killian is only a little worried he’s going to do damage to her shoulders from holding her as tightly as he is.

She doesn’t say anything.

“Does that say peppermint?” she mutters.

Will grins. “Festive, right? Did our latest reunion get reunited yet? The previews said that one was going to be especially heart-stringy.”  
  
“That still doesn’t make any sense, you know that?”  
  
“If you move over so I can also see the laptop screen, I will pour us a copious amount of peppermint schnapps and then I’ll have an excuse for my lack of vocabulary.”  
  
Emma laughs – not hint of worry or the word _demise_ and Killian doesn’t kiss her hair again. He regrets that. “Yeah, that seems fair,” Emma nods. “Oh man, look, they’re talking about how long they’ve been waiting to see each other again.”  
  
“How long did Robert say they’ve been apart?” Will asks, dragging the bottle across the glasses Killian didn’t see him grab.

“Robert. He’s the presenter,” she adds, twisting to grin at Killian. He bites the side of his tongue and resists the urge to start drinking straight out of the bottle. “Robert said it was about a decade since they moved out of the apartment they shared in college and they’ve stayed in touch, but there were, like visa issues and something about the EU?”  
  
“It’s entirely possible, the EU is a jerk.”  
  
“Did you just refer to the EU as a jerk, collectively?” Killian balks, taking a far too large sip of his drink. He nearly chokes. Emma laughs again. “God, this is horrible.”  
  
Will shrugs. “I don’t think anyone has ever ordered peppermint schnapps in the history of our entire ownership.”  
  
“I can see why. I feel like I’ve just downed an entire tube of toothpaste.”  
  
“What kind of toothpaste are you using?” Emma asks. She turns again, a quick spin that catches Killian off guard, particularly when her arm wraps around his middle. “Did you pack yet?”  
  
“Not a single piece of clothing. I don’t even know where my luggage is.”  
  
“Just throw it in with mine.”  
  
“Will you two shut up?” Will hisses. “This is happening right now.”  
  
Emma buries her face against Killian’s shirt, arm still curled around him and he can feel her laughter. That’s decidedly emotional and maybe just a little festive, but he’s also got his own copy of the Christmas card folded in between several different bills in his wallet and he has no intention of changing his lock screen.

Like ever.

So he’s going to take his victories where he can get them and ignore the assumption that Will planned this entire thing because even that feels a little too on the nose and everyone on the laptop screen is crying now.  
  
“Will Scarlet, are you crying?” Emma asks, voice betraying her own emotion even with her face half pressed into Killian’s collarbone.

Will shakes his head, downing the rest of his drink. It makes him shiver. There’s more kissing on the laptop screen. There is so much kissing on this show.

Killian figures that’s kind of festive too. He also ignores the rush of jealousy tugging at the back of his brain and the bottom of his spine, pulling Emma just a hint closer to him instead. It’s needy and greedy and another word that rhymes with those first two words and he wouldn’t be entirely opposed to falling asleep on the couch with her again.

That seems to be the only way either of them can sleep consistently.

“No,” Will shouts. Emma probably widens her eyes. Killian knows she widens her eyes. “No! Who would cry over this show?”  
  
“I’ve got absolutely no idea.”  
  
“How many napkins have you gone through?”  
  
“I fail to see how that’s relevant at all.”  
  
“Yuh huh,” Will grumbles, dragging a quick hand over his cheeks. He probably sets a record for volume on his sigh. “You know what, this is nice. And the world is awful and peppermint schnapps are absolutely disgusting and--”  
  
His whole body slumps when he runs out of air, looking a bit like a deflated parade float. That’s the wrong holiday. And Emma doesn’t really let go of Killian when she moves, just leans forward and wraps her other arm around Will until they’re a tangle of limbs and feelings and too-tight reindeer antlers – just like the goddamn TV show.

“And in Whoville, they say, the Grinch’s small heart grew three sizes that day,” Emma mutters, a quiet laugh out of Will and Killian. Several of the regulars appear to be cheering.

“We’re going to be fine, love,” Killian says. He hopes if he keeps saying it, then it will have to come true.

He’s dreading her going back to work.

Will nods in agreement, refilling their glasses because peppermint schnapps are disgusting, but they keep drinking and Killian hopes there are more episodes to watch. “Totally fine,” he says. “Don’t you think so?”  
  
Emma inhales sharply. And Killian knows he’s missing something – a sudden confusion that isn’t entirely the fault of disgusting alcohol no one else in their right mind would order. Her hair hits his neck when she nods that time. “Yeah,” Emma mumbles. “Well--I mean, I hope so.”  
  
“That’s all we can hope for at this point.” Will nods once more, lips twisted into something vaguely resembling determination. “Well, we should do some kind of toast, don’t you think?”  
  
“We already drank,” Killian points out.  
  
“Ah, that was just round one. This is...our second try and what should have been or something.”  
  
His eyes flash back towards the show – even less subtlety that’s starting to feel a bit like several metaphorical hammers. Killian lifts his eyebrows, but Will doesn’t move, just grins widely enough to do damage to his jaw.

“To figuring it out,” he says, holding his hand up. “And finding a little bit of love when we all need it the most.”  
  
“That was poetic,” Emma smiles. She taps her glass against Will’s and twists to glance at Killian. It’s enough to make his heart sputter and his pulse thud and several other bodily issues that should not be issues for a normal human being, but they were on that Grinch kick before and there may be more coffee in his bloodstream than anything else and sharing luggage seems like a very large step.

Almost like sending Christmas cards.

Almost.

“Maybe Christmas, perhaps, means a little bit more,” Will adds, and they finish the entire bottle by the end of the night, smiling at regulars and wishing _happy holidays_ and Emma does in fact fall asleep on the couch again with her head on Killian’s shoulder and her legs draped over his.

They don’t pack until the next morning.

They share a suitcase.

And the drive to Storybrooke is as easy as it’s ever been, even in Emma’s beat-up Volkswagen. There’s no snow, which probably shouldn’t disappoint Killian, but he’s got suddenly very high hopes regarding this Christmas and this trip and he’s going to do something.

He’s not entirely sure what, but it’s something. Hopefully not just shouting how much he loves her in Emma’s face.

That’d probably make Ruth uncomfortable.

David and Mary Margaret’s car is already parked in the driveway when they turn onto Ruth’s street – lights in the window and wrapped around a meticulously landscaped yard and Emma’s hand finds Killian’s as soon as she puts the car in park.

“Three,” she starts, a smile on her face that makes him think maybe shouting things may not be such a bad idea. “Two--”

“--One,” Killian finishes and, right on time, the door swings open, both Mary Margaret and Ruth jogging towards them with aprons wrapped around their waists and what, at first glance, look like matching streaks of flour on their cheeks.

Emma rolls her eyes. “How long do you think they’ve been baking?”  
  
“Since dawn, at least.”  
  
“If not earlier.”  
  
“Your cookies were better.”  
  
“Charmer.”  
  
“As previously mentioned, only when you’re involved, love.” Emma squeezes his hand lightly, an unconscious movement that he kind of hopes is just that and tonight. He’s going to say something tonight and let the chips fall where they may or--

It’s suddenly very difficult to breathe in that car.

Mary Margaret is knocking on the window. Emma mumbles something that sounds quite a bit like _oh my God_ under her breath.

Killian squeezes her hand.

“Hi, hi, hi,” Mary Margaret chants, bobbing on the balls of her feet. “Are you guys coming in?”  
  
“If you’d move away from the door,” Killian says. Ruth has already opened Emma’s side, more or less tugging her out of the driver’s seat and wrapping her in a hug that should come with several different warning labels for a variety of internal organs.

Mary Margaret gaps, all but jumping back so Killian can step out of the car. And then she launches herself at him.

He grunts when his body slams back into the car, hopeful he hasn’t actually dented the stupid thing because that would absolutely frustrate Emma and probably ruin his plans and they had to sign up for Amazon prime so they could get Ruth her very specific hot chocolate present.

“Oh I’m so glad you’re here,” Mary Margaret says. She’s got a vice-like grip around his neck, feet barely skimming the ground and Killian has absolutely no idea what the hell is going on.

He hopes that’s not a trend for the rest of the trip.

“We’re not really that late,” he reasons, not sure if it’s an excuse or an explanation. She tightens her grip.

“No, no, I just--this is such a good thing.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“What?”  
  
It takes a moment for Killian to disentangle himself enough that he can lean back, brows furrowed when he looks at Mary Margaret. She also looks incredibly confused. “What are you talking about?”  
  
“What are you talking about?”  
  
“Mary Margaret this is getting us nowhere.”  
  
She blinks – several thousand times, opening her mouth only to close it and tilt her head. Her feet are still not on the ground. And Ruth is talking in hushed tones to Emma. “But that’s…” Mary Margaret starts, eyelashes fluttering. “How is that possible?”  
  
“Are you under the impression that I understand what you’re saying?”  
  
“But Scarlet said--”  
  
“--If you’re gossiping with Scarlet, then we’re already off to a very bad start,” Killian interrupts, and Mary Margaret scrunches her nose in the way she does when she gets embarrassed.

“Gossip is such a dirty word.”  
  
“Is that not what’s happening?”  
  
“I genuinely have no idea anymore,” Mary Margaret sighs, a bit of disappointment that does not match up with her personality at all. There are more footsteps coming towards the door that neither she nor Ruth ever bothered to close and David is holding several cookies in both hands.

Emma yelps, leaving a clearly disgruntled Ruth behind her as she sprints up the steps towards her brother. He doesn’t groan when she collides with him, barely even loses his balance at all, just flips his wrist and she takes two of the cookies.

Killian’s arms are starting to ache from supporting most of Mary Margaret.

“We’ve already set the board up,” David calls towards Killian, one side of his mouth twisting up. Ruth makes a put-upon sound. “And divvied up the money so you and Emma can’t cheat at all this year.”

“Aw c’mon,” Emma shouts. “We’ve never cheated once.”  
  
Mary Margaret may actually be suffering from a complete personality shift. She makes the world’s most ridiculous noise of contradiction – almost straight into Killian’s ear, but that works an even quicker apology out of her an his forearms appreciate it when she wiggles back onto the ground. “Well that is patently untrue, isn’t it?” she asks. “I mean--you’ve got an entire system. Going back for centuries.”  
  
“I really don’t think it’s been that long.”  
  
“That’s true,” Ruth agrees. “It’s been longer.”  
  
Killian is going to have to get surgery on his jaw. It can’t be healthy for it to drop open that far and that quickly so often. Ruth smiles at him, moving around the car to rest her palm on his cheek. It’s warm.

“You two have been a team for as long as I can remember,” she says. “And you’re very good at finding the loopholes together.”  
  
It kind of feels like his ears are on fire. He cannot deal with whatever Mary Margaret is doing next to him. “I don’t know that there are really that many loopholes in Monopoly, ma’am,” Killian mutters, dimly aware of Emma’s quiet laugh a few feet away.

David may groan. Or try and stuff several cookies in his mouth at once.

“Ah, I don’t know about that,” Ruth says softly. “It’s a game, isn’t it?” Killian nods. His ears are definitely burning. “Then I think there are loopholes to be found. And you and Emma like to steal money from the bank when David isn’t looking. That’s why you’ll have to ask me for the money this year.”  
  
“Are you kidding me?” Emma asks, swatting at David when he refuses to give her another cookie. “That’s going to make the game last even longer!”  
  
Ruth shakes her head. “Then we’re all on the same page. And are you telling me that you don’t have fun playing Monopoly every year?”  
  
“Or buying up the Marvin Gardens properties every single year,” Mary Margaret adds.

Emma’s mouth is hanging open. “Those are good properties! They’re not too expensive to build on, but then when you get hotels you can--”  
  
“--Absolutely decimate your opponent,” David and Mary Margaret finish in tandem.

“I don’t always say that.”  
  
“Eh,” David says through a mouthful of cookie.

“You do have some tried and true catchphrases, love,” Killian says, and Mary Margaret probably strains her retinas or something. Ruth still has her hand on his face, pressing up quickly to kiss his other cheek.

Emma blinks.

“I don’t need to cheat to win,” she proclaims.

“I thought you didn’t cheat,” David says, chuckling when she throws both her hands in the air and it probably shouldn’t surprise Killian that Mary Margaret wipes several metaphorical floors with them in, quite possibly, the longest Monopoly game they’ve ever played.

And it’s hours later – the game put away because _dinner is almost ready_ and Mary Margaret’s tugged Emma into the corner of the couch to show of a Pinterest board for their upcoming wedding and Killian’s fairly certain she didn’t look all that frustrated by that. It makes him something almost resembling confident, standing in the kitchen and glancing out at the suddenly snow-covered lawn in front of him.

“So,” David says, dragging the word out when he takes a clearly serious step onto the linoleum floor. “Do we actually have to talk about it?”  
  
Killian narrows his eyes. “You know between you and Mary Margaret I’m a little concerned you’ve both developed some kind of communication problem that’s going to require immediate medical attention.”  
  
David stops walking. “What does that mean?”  
  
“See, this is exactly what I’m talking about. Did you and Mary Margaret plan this?”  
  
“I mean...not entirely.”  
  
“What does that mean?”  
  
“Did you think we wouldn’t talk about it? This is a huge deal. For both of you.”  
  
Killian wishes he could come up with another word besides _what_ , but he’s also apparently lost his ability to create proper sentences and Ruth has made enough food for several large armies. “Who are you talking about, exactly?”  
  
David clicks his teeth – a nervous habit he’s had since college orientation and Killian can’t help the way his eyes dart towards the living room when he hears Emma’s laugh. “See,” David yells, pushing on Killian’s shoulder. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about!”

“David, we have known each other for a very long time so it’s going to be really weird when I punch you out of sheer frustration at how ridiculous this conversation is.”  
  
“That’d probably make Emma mad.”  
  
“Well, yeah, I can’t imagine she’d appreciate it when her brother gets decked in his childhood kitchen, but--”  
  
“--No, no, not because of that,” David cuts in, rushing over the words so quickly they barely even sound like words. “It’s about time, really. And it’s going to make everything so much easier.”  
  
“David, I was not kidding about the punching threat.”  
  
“Well, if you guys are already dating, then it makes the whole asking you to be my best man some kind of shoe-in. Is that the right phrase? It doesn’t seem like the right phrase.”  
  
Killian is very grateful for the counter behind him. He leans back against it until the edge digs into his spine, desperate for something solid because his knees feel a bit more like the pudding he knows is in the fridge than anything resembling actual human cartilage.

Maybe he is the Grinch.

Nothing about him feels very human at the moment.

Although he doesn’t think the Grinch had a girlfriend. He’s not sure he has a girlfriend.

David is still staring at him – far too knowing and appraising and it takes half a second for him to move to the fridge with the pudding inside it, tugging something off the front and pushing it into Killian’s eye line. “Was this not an announcement?”  
It’s their Christmas card. Emma is still laughing. Killian’s ears have started ringing.

“Because it certainly looks like an announcement,” David continues, waving the photo paper like Killian hasn’t memorized every single inch of it already. “Or confirmation. Ah, that’s a better word isn’t it?”  
  
“Good thing you don’t have an English degree.”  
  
“Don’t get cute with me, save that for my sister.”  
  
“Jeez.”  
  
“Ok, don’t save that for my sister,” David amends. “At least not when I’m around. This is--I mean, you guys sent out a Christmas card together. You went to Macy’s! Don’t you have to have an appointment to get photos taken now?”  
  
“Why do you know that?”  
  
“That’s not an answer. Are you and Emma not actually dating? Because that’s honestly kind of disappointing and means I owe Mary Margaret twenty bucks.”  
  
Killian’s jaw cracks. “You bet on this?”  
  
“Wouldn’t you have? It seemed inevitable. Elsa and Ruby both think you guys have been dating for years and just never wanted to talk about it. We figured the Christmas card was--”  
  
“--Confirmation,” Killian finishes, David shrugging like it’s the most obvious thing in the world and, well, it kind of is. Because he’s wanted that forever and there _was_ that moment and most strangers seem to be under the very real impression that they’re a very real couple.

The Indiana lady definitely thought they were, at least, engaged or something.

“So…” David mutters. “Was there a yes or a no in there somewhere?”  
  
Killian opens his mouth – not sure what he’s going to say because he’s never actually come up with a plan and Emma’s got to go back to work the day after they leave Storybrooke and he knows he’s got missed calls on his phone and--

“You’re ringing,” David says pointedly, nodding towards Killian’s pocket. “But for what it’s worth, I don’t think you’re the only one who been pining.”  
  
“There’s been no pining.”  
  
“Yeah, and you and Emma have never cheated at Monopoly before. Together. C’mon.”  
  
Killian huffs, licking his lips. “You really want me to be your best man?”  
  
“Obviously.”  
  
“Well you didn’t really ask.”  
  
“I didn’t think I had to,” David growls, but there’s a distinct lack of frustration in his voice. It’s more like..exasperation. Killian understands that. “At some point one of you is going to have to inform the other one that they’re head over heels. It’s getting annoying.”  
  
“Yeah, we’d hate to annoy you.”  
  
“You want to be my best man?” Killian has to grip the counter to stop himself from falling over. His phone is ringing again. David shrugs. “I figured, straight to the point, you know? No sense in beating around the bush or whatever metaphor you want to use.”  
  
“Between you and Scarlet, it’s like getting trampled by several very opinionated elephants.”  
  
“Observant. Also Scarlet thought so too. So…”

Killian is running out of oxygen to dramatically exhale. He yanks his phone out of his pocket, only a little surprised by the name on the screen. “Speak of the devil,” he mumbles, swiping his thumb across and Will is already yelling.

“Are you kidding me? Answer your goddamn phone!”  
  
“Is that not what I’m currently doing?”  
  
“God, I hate you so much, I almost don’t even want to tell you what--”  
  
“--Tell me what?” Killian interrupts, moving around David and Emma glances at him when he walks onto the porch. He winks.

The door doesn’t quite slam behind him, but it’s enough noise to catch Will’s attention, a quiet chuckle that makes the hair on the back of Killian’s neck stand up. That may be because of the snow. It’s snowing harder now.

“Are you sitting down?” Will asks. “Because you may want to be sitting down.”

“I’m not sitting down.”  
  
“You should probably sit down.”  
  
“Or you could just tell me what the hell is going on,” Killian says. “Where are you right now?”  
  
“Home, home, I’m--listen, that absolutely does not matter. Are you near Emma?”  
  
Killian growls into the phone, kicking at the air in front of him and there may be a full inch of snow on the ground now. “Get to the point, Scarlet! Is this important? I’ve got dinner to eat and a roast beef to get out of the oven and--”  
  
“--You going to carve it?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Well, the Grinch carved the roast beef and this is kind of like that.”  
  
“The point, Scarlet!”  
  
Will chuckles, a soft sound that doesn’t entirely make sense in the context of the conversation. Killian licks his lips again. And, really, in the grand scheme of emotional roller coasters he’s been riding for most of December he probably should have been better prepared to hear the next few words.

He probably should have expected them.

He didn't. Or doesn’t. His knees will very likely ache for the rest of his life. It’s a price he’s more than willing to pay because--

“Emma fixed it,” Will whispers, the words shaking their way across several thousand miles and straight into Killian’s soul or something equally absurd. “The whole goddamn thing.”  
  
“What? I don’t…”  
  
“This is why you needed to be sitting down. She’s been doing it this whole time. In between all the baking. She’s been researching and trying to figure out how to stop whatshisface and he’s not going to be able to do anything. The whole projects got to stop.”  
  
Killian’s vision is swimming, a jarring lack of oxygen finding its way to his brain. He runs his hand over his face, certain this has to be a dream, but he couldn’t possibly be this cold in a dream and it’s got to be real.

“What do you mean stop?”

“A very nice research rep from the New York Public Library just called me,” Will explains. “Belle French. We talked for awhile and she told me that she and Emma have been trying to find some kind of historical reason to shut it down. They found it. You know we used to be a speakeasy?”  
  
“What?”  
  
Will hums and it sounds a lot like pure joy. “Oh, yeah, we’ve been shady since the start it seems, but the city of New York eats that shit up and there’s some underground passages or vaults or something in the basement and that means they can’t tear down the building or sell it to anyone except a person who is willing to maintain its historical integrity.”  
  
“And are?”  
  
“We better fucking be. That’s what I told Belle. She’s going to bring a bunch of papers to the bar day after Christmas and--”  
  
“--Oh my God, did you try and get a date out of this?”  
  
“C’mon,” Will groans, but Killian’s got more suspicions and he can’t seem to stop smiling. “I mean--well, who knows what’ll happen. The point is that Emma said she was trying to do something and--”  
  
“--Wait, wait,” Killian sputters. He ignores whatever sound Will makes at another interruption. “Emma told you?”  
Silence.

Deafening silence.

Until there are footsteps behind him and they should have bought Ruth wd40 because the hinges on her front door squeak quite a lot.

Emma’s biting her lip when he turns around, barely mumbling _I’ll talk to you later_ before hanging up on Will and hoping his phone actually finds its way back into his pocket. And, by Killian’s admittedly shaky count, it takes exactly three seconds, one deep breath and two rather large strides for him to cross the space between them and catch her lips with his.

He’s fairly certain he’ll think about the sound she makes when he pulls her flush against his chest for the rest of his life and any ensuing afterlifes, a quiet noise that isn’t quite a gasp, but feels a bit more like settling into something both of them have been waiting far too long for.

She’s got her arms around his neck, only one foot on the ground and it takes a moment for his brain to register that she’s not actually wearing any shoes. She’s standing barefoot on Ruth’s porch and Killian can feel the smile on her lips.

They break apart for a moment, only to collide back together with even more force and more emotions. Emma’s fingers are everywhere, carding through his hair and drifting over the back of his neck, arm twisting so she can tug on the back of his shirt like she’s trying to make sure he doesn’t go anywhere.

As if he could.

Everything feels like it’s spinning at the same time it’s stopped entirely. It’s a weird line to walk, but that’s been kind of the theme of their entire relationship and--

“Did it work?” Emma asks softly, a bit of hope in her gaze that makes Killian wonder if maybe his heart can just explode in his chest.

He nods. And that only leads to more, quick presses of lips and hands that are determined to map every single inch of her and he can’t possibly be expected to control the laugh that bubbles out of him as soon as she starts peppering his face with kisses.

“Swan,” Killian mutters, more laughter when she very clearly objects to his attempts to talk. The muscles in his mouth are starting to ache, rocking back to try and look at her and he can’t decide if he wants to spend the rest of his life looking at her or kissing her or thanking her.

He’s fairly confident he can do all three.

“Swan,” he repeats, and her fingers are warm when she rests both her hands on his cheeks. He kisses the inside of her wrist. Instinct or whatever. “Emma, love--you’ve got to--”  
  
More kissing. And a very particular roll of her hips. And his fingers find their way under the hem of her shirt.

“Emma.”  
  
“It really worked?” she asks. “I wasn’t---no one called me yet, but I told Belle to call Will first and I--” She sighs, the smile moving across her face in slow motion like it’s also getting used to the idea. Killian brushes his thumb under her eye when a wayward tear finds its way onto her cheek. “Mary Margaret thinks we’re dating.”  
  
“So does David.”  
  
“What?”  
  
Killian nods, more kissing and it’s like someone has opened some kind of dam which is really a horrible analogy, but his brain can’t quite process all of this. “Yeah,” he says. “That’s uh, that’s what we were talking about before Scarlet called me. I think everyone in the bar does too if the gossip is right. Apparently only couples send out Christmas cards.”  
  
“Did you know that?”  
  
“You mean was my suggestion to fake appointments with Santa Claus actually code for how much I want to date you?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Not on purpose.”  
  
“Huh,” Emma mutters. “I, um--well, maybe we have been dating without all the fun of it and, you know, trying to save the bar was kind of my segue into…” She takes a deep breath, the tip of her tongue pressed into the corner of her mouth and that is decidedly distracting and even more attractive until--”I’m pretty ridiculously in love with you.”

Honestly, his knees are never going to recover.

It makes it easier to bend and kiss her though, so maybe it’s a wash. And they linger in that moment for a few more moments, more roaming hands and sounds that will probably sink into every corner of every single memory he’s ever made and no memory could ever be as good as this one inevitably will be.

“And it’s so stupid,” Emma adds, sounding as if she’s half talking to herself. “I just--there was that one time and--”  
  
“--I’m not sure there are actual numbers in the world for the amount of times I’ve thought about that, actually.” She blinks. It really is stupid. Killian grins, lungs burning slightly because he keeps forgetting to breathe. He hasn’t moved his hand out from underneath her shirt. “If you tell me that you didn’t want to mess up our friendship though, I may scream.”  
  
“I mean that’s more or less it. It’s crazy cliché, huh?”  
  
“Decidedly. Although at least we’re not in an airport.”  
  
“I did kind of attack kiss you.”  
  
“I’d welcome that at any point from here on out,” Killian says, mostly so he can get that one laugh out of her and that other smile and it feels a bit like Christmas when he gets both at once. “I don’t know what I would have done if something happened to you.”  
  
“That’s all I thought about,” Emma says softly. There are more tears on her cheeks now. “I--everything went to shit and you were all...I kept thinking what an idiot I was and how I couldn’t...I couldn’t lose you. Not without--”  
  
He kisses her. It’s kind of an attack. He assumes it’s acceptable, all things considered.  
  
“I love you,” Killian says, not bothering to move away from her mouth and he had no idea Emma’s fingers tracing over the curve of his jaw would become his favorite thing in the entire world so quickly. “For as long as I can remember.”  
  
“Idiots.”  
  
“A team of idiots, at least.”  
  
“I’d rather not cheat at this.”  
  
“Me either.”  
  
Emma hums, teeth tugging on her lip and it’s a miracle Ruth hasn’t chastised them for leaving the door open yet. “I didn’t want you to lose the Jolly Roger. That’s...that bar has been…”  
  
“I know, love. And I didn’t want to lose it either. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do if I had to move out. Probably end up on that show of Scarlet’s.”  
  
“I wouldn’t have let you move out.”  
  
“You’re the single most stubborn person I know.”  
  
“Yeah, that may be true,” she nods. “Do you think Scarlet showed me that show on purpose?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“Right, right. So, um….if everyone already thinks we’re dating. I mean, I’d very much like to date you too.”  
  
The rush of _everything_ that works his way through every single inch of him feels a bit like the greatest sugar rush in the history of humanity. And possibly the Grinch. Killian smiles, wide enough that he’s a little worried it’ll do permanent damage, but then Emma’s pressing up on her toes and they’re really, really great at kissing each other and--

“What are you doing on New Year’s, Swan?”  
  
“Hmm, hadn’t really thought about it, honestly. But I know there’s this really great bar a couple blocks off Steinway.”  
  
“I think I’ve heard of that place. Good crowd usually, plenty of peppermint schnapps, apparently historic. Vaguely attractive bartenders.”  
  
“Vaguely,” she echoes, and they spend at least five more minutes making out before David comes outside and demands to know if this is _for real or not_. Emma leans back. “What do you think, Jones?”  
  
“I love you.”  
  
David definitely gags. Mary Margaret absolutely _awwws_ from somewhere. Killian would bet both Ruby and Elsa she’s FaceTime’ing Will.

Emma smiles at him. And, after the roast beef and the pudding and watching The Polar Express on Ruth’s couch, she refuses to let Killian stay in the guest room down the hall, pulling him into her room instead and resting her head on his chest. He’s just about to fall asleep, eyelids fluttering and heart almost returning to its normal beats per minute and he kind of expected the words this time.

“I love you too,” Emma says.

They both sleep through the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas, all! I hope you all got what you wanted and something you didn't expect, but wanted even more and that someone made your favorite side dish. As always, thank you for being wonderful and nice. 
> 
> Come flail on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/) if you're down.


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